FIN
by TheMortalMan
Summary: "Finnick? Yeah, I spoke to him. Yeah. He's a big guy, he'll be okay. He's tough. Not just physically, though. Stuff he's been through, takes more than just lifting a few weights to get past that. But, I saw his face when we split. Stuff he might go through now? I don't know if he'll hold, carrots... I just don't know."(Mainly OC's. Coarse language, moderate violence).
1. One

**(Disclaimer: All referenced materials and works are the property of their respective owner/s. Zootopia, original Zootopia characters and the Zootopia licence are owned by Disney. This work of fiction is owned by me.)**

* * *

 **ONE**

What's money got to do with it?

Finnick let the van glide slowly to a halt. It stopped just in front of the crossing, lurching backwards slightly as the squealing brakes died away. It stopped, lonely, in the middle of the four-lane avenue. No other traffic, no other movement and no other sound except the low rumble of the six-point-two diesel engine. Four story apartments lined each side of the road in regular blocks, but there was no light behind the windows. So, once again, alone, the van and the Fox waited in a black frown illuminated by the glowing red of the signal behind the wheel. The heavy-set amber eyes betrayed nothing except fatigue.

What's money got to do with it?

The Fennec sighed as he tightened his grip on the wheel. It was the hour where everything was shrouded in darkness. Shadows sprang from headlights that only slightly pierced the night. Black clouds hid the moon. There were never any stars.

He was tired, too tired, and couldn't think. All that played in his mind was that same line over and over. There was no change of expression when he pressed a small foot on the gas as the glow switched silently from amber to green. The engine rumbled into motion and carried him forward beyond quiet, sleeping homes. Finnick's eyes glanced down to the dashboard. Exactly three o'clock. The dead hour. He drove the van past side streets and parked cars, then swung left. He stopped again at a set of red lights. Any other day he would just jump the damn things, particularly at this time of night. But for some reason, he found small comfort in stopping at the signals. Maybe it was because of what was said to him just last morning. Gave him time to think.

" _S'got everythin' to do with it._ " He whispered in his massive gravel-laden voice. Finnick never spoke to himself. Guess it was just one of those nights. The fox closed his eyes and slowly rested his forehead on the wheel. His ears twitched, but he remained unmoving. He picked up the screech of a bike in the distance and turned his ears to it. His head was still rested in between his arms. It screamed away through streets seemingly miles away, giving out low sputters when the gear changed and whined at a jarring pitch as it reached max RPM. There was a quiet rustling when the small body shifted slightly in the seat. He was wearing his favourite black bowling shirt with the red stripe and red diamond crest, but his usual khaki shorts were too dirty so he had small jet black jeans on instead. For a few seconds he rested his head there, ears protruding.

No, he can't stop.

He was so close to the lot. Left off central, and then follow 124th Street past the park. He was too close to stop. Finnick groaned deeply, then violently jolted his head up in an attempt to slip out of the creeping slumber. He did so just as the lights changed, and he pressed a small foot on the gas once more, ploughing on to find rest. Taking a sharp right down a similar street, he then slowly lurched right once more at the nearest crossroads to take him to within view of the garage. He could hear the bike all the way. It seemed to be getting closer, each whine and each sputter ever so louder.

In the last half hour, he'd probably covered only a couple hundred meters. At this rate, there would be no need to find a place to bunk up, he thought. It's not like that mattered anymore, though. As he raised his gaze, the Fox could see the lot ahead. It was a colourless mass of concrete five stories high, stretching above the apartments somewhat. Finnick stopped again at a set of lights, not caring whether they were red or not. It was almost a silent admission of defeat, a conceit of how exhausted he was whenever he stopped. When he halted, he wanted desperately to stay there. What was waiting for him around the corner? What would happen today?

He whispered to himself again. Definitely one of those nights. He let his head fall on the steering wheel once more, this time letting it land on the left side to allow his glassy stare to look out the right window. There, finally, was the empty park that stretched about two blocks north. The green grass, green trees and green trash cans were turned black by the night, and it was late enough that the lamps only emitted a feeble orange glow, like embers from a campfire in a vast empty cavern. A basketball hoop was shrouded in darkness, its chain net only slightly nudged by a passing breeze. For whatever reason-most likely the strange severance brought about by sleep deprivation-Finnick's mind wandered back to of high school, made him think of long recesses spent watching, arms folded, by the sidelines. He could hear the calls now, loud and unwanted as they echoed in his head.

 _"You're a pred? Can't you even fuckin' play?!"_

 _"Yea, c'mon, Fennec! Dunk it!"_

Just enough of that and his rage would boil over. He tended to bite the basketball or bite the kid. Sometimes both. Either way, he hated the damn sport nearly as much as he had hated high school. Most of those assholes were prey anyway. The scowl on the Fennec deepened. He spent a few more silent moments staring into that old memory, then, very abruptly, Finnick let tiredness better him, and he closed his eyes, finally ridding himself of the stinging they were causing him. He let his mind drift sweetly into oblivion, he let go of his environment and let his thoughts melt to darkness. His eyes were welded shut. Nobody was around. He'd let the angry commuters be his alarm in the morning. He wanted nothing more than to sleep.

Then suddenly he was pulled out of the void.

Finnick whipped up, eyes wide and searching. The distant bike was suddenly very close. It had raced past him, screaming right by his closed window, and now the tail-light was turning out of sight down the nearest road by the parking garage. The Fennec followed the red light from the bike for a few moments, but he couldn't tell who or what was on it. He let a sigh out and furrowed his brow again. He didn't know how long he'd slept, nor did he care. The night was still black, and the ignition was still on, so he stepped on the gas with his small legs and drove directly forward. He heard the bike echo around a few blocks next to him, but ignored it and drove on to the entrance. When he got there, a barrier blocked his way. Finnick ground the van to a halt, then turned around and pulled a long metal rod, the kind used to pitch tents, out of the back. He used it as an extension for his arm, leaning over out of the now open window to make empty promises to the toll, when, in reality, he'd be gone before it would even be checked. As he carefully tapped the last few lies away, Finnick wondered at how much he'd probably get back if he could cash in all his unpaid parking tickets. But it was a stupid fantasy, so he quickly dismissed the thought. He drove the van quickly into the lot and up the ramp.

The ascent seemingly took forever, and he wondered if he would ever reach his level. He wondered if he would just keep driving around in circles in this strange concrete purgatory. He let a short breath out in relief when he saw the painted four light up under his headlights and pulled out of the ramp, quickly rounding the van into a parking space with a skilful one-armed twirl of the wheel. The van finally stopped, and as he pulled up the handbrake and wiggled the gear stick, the Fox reached around and pulled the keys out, letting the strained engine die away at long last. Then he stopped. He froze.

Finnick just sat there for a while. Staring.

It was absolutely silent now. Whether the bike had stopped or left he didn't care, all he knew is that it was gone, replaced by the nearly undetectable buzzing of the lights in the garage and the gentle background murmur of city ambience, lessened at an hour like this. He was staring out northwards, looking over blocks of four story apartments and empty parks, over twisting highways on which sparse little headlights still moved like meandering pairs of fireflies, over domes and massive structures that were the city's malls, theatres and concert halls. He stared right to the centre, where the downtown skyscrapers traced across the horizon line, their inescapably huge glassy surfaces giving out thousands of lights as people worked on through the night in their offices. Downtown was like a magnificent regal crown, and at night-time when the spotlights reared into the sky, and the city gave off its golden glow the glassy structures managed to look that much more... spectacular. The glowing city only partially illuminated Finnick's face and left the rest of the van in shadow, and the fox gazed on for a while longer then stood up slowly in his seat and turned around. He vaulted over the back of the chair and landed right on his couch, the springs creaking in protest. The position he crumpled into barely altered, and he didn't bother to change, rather just letting himself slip down the infinite black slope to rest. Fatigue took him quickly and quietly, and a few breaths later he was sound asleep.

Then there was a noise, some quiet noise very close. He'd probably dreamed it. Hopefully, he'd dreamed it. But then he could hear something very clearly. Something pulled him out of the slumber. Was it a rumbling? Had his van started again? Finnick opened his eyes slowly, then squinted them into a narrow, burning glare. An unchecked anger was building behind them. His large ears flicked in annoyance. It wasn't his van. The rumbling noise had a higher pitch. Suddenly, Finnick launched himself out of bed, the swelling exhaustion leaving him in place of boiling rage. That same asshole. Woke him up once and had the guts to follow him and wake up him up again. Finnick's fury rose steadily to the point where he took the rashest action possible. Maybe it was the time it took for him to find the lot, maybe it was that old memory of those prey in high school, or maybe it was what his old friend had said to him not a few hours before.

" _S'got everything to do with it!_ " He hissed those words and made up his mind. The van door flew open with a huge crash as the Fox kicked it, and he launched himself down a height that nearly matched his. His feet slapped onto the concrete as frenzied amber eyes flicked to the figure on the bike about fifteen meters opposite him. His bat was poised as if he was about to hit a fastball.

"You wanna' wake me up _one more time_!"

The booming challenge echoed around the halls, and the driver remained stationary. The fox bore his eyes right into the black visor, and he quickly realised that he had no real plan of attack. Whatever. Too angry to care. The figure on the bike was wearing all black riding-leather. He had black knuckle gloves, both placed on the handles, and his left foot touched the floor as he propped up the stationary bike. It was a sleek blue thing, elegant but certainly extremely powerful. A rich asshole, Finnick thought. He dared not move, but his eyes studied all parts of the rider. There were the black riding trousers, jet-black zipped-up bomber jacket... He searched for signs of the figures' species. If it was a polar bear, he had some serious problems, if it was a panther he had some really serious problems. He caught a glimpse of a white and black tail swishing side to side behind the figure's back and internally breathed a sigh of relief. Some lone tiger bike-thief then? Weren't uncommon here.

"You gonna' need more than just that fancy bike if you wanna' take _my_ shit!" There was a slightly mocking tone in that shout. That re-ignited some ferocity in the Fox, and he balanced himself, feet shoulder width apart, bat poised and ready. He had a deep frown and bore sharp teeth, growling loudly. What he heard next, however, made him stop growling. It made him look uncertain, even anxious, even made him raise one quizzical eyebrow. The figure was chuckling. It was quiet at first, drowned out by the noise of the engine and muffled by the helmet, but it grew until the animal was near to laughing out loud. The voice was deep, very deep, and Finnick could've sworn he'd heard it before. Then, suddenly, he took his gloves off the handle and reached upwards. Finnick regained his balance and was a microsecond away from launching an attack, but all his anger quickly drained away when the face under the helmet revealed itself. It was a Siberian white tiger, and it called out across the empty space in a booming, jovial tone.

" _Moy Bog!_ " He called in Russian, and then he said in English, "You are fearless, my friend!"

Finnick let the bat down as the last bits of anger died away. He took a long gaze at the tiger, who was beaming a toothy grin, and called tiredly across the space.

"Hey, Vlad."

A few moments later the tiger had dismounted his bike, and they were both leaning on the barrier that faced out towards downtown. Their size difference was certainly a sight to behold; one broad-shouldered hulking big cat that had a body built like an oak, one tiny fennec whose ear tips only just came to the same height as the others knees. The barrier had a concrete border that stood to Finnick's midriff, and the rest of the way it was a combination of metal bars and mesh. The Fox leaned with folded arms on that border, peering over through the mesh, while the tiger leaned in the same position, except on the top of the metal barrier. Finnick gazed out towards nowhere in particular, his brow furrowed in deep thought. The tiger, however, had a seemingly permanent grin, and his eyes were wide as the pupils flicked about in awe at the scene.

It was a minute or two before the tiger broke the silence. "Beautiful." He spoke softly with a heavy accent. "...you think?". The fox grunted in indifference. A couple more seconds of silence drifted by.

"How'd you find me?" Finnick growled, still looking forward. He asked the question when he already knew the answer. Or lack thereof.

The tiger turned and looked down. "Ah." He smiled and tapped his bandaged nose lightly with one finger. "Is secret."

Finnick expected as much. He knew what the tiger was involved in. Pressing him would get a whole load of nothing. To his credit, he definitely knew how to be stoic when he wanted to be.

Vlad chuckled and pressed on, clearly eager to avoid the subject. "But, it was not easy. Looking through all of the city in search of a..." He paused and gestured to the vehicle behind Finnick.

"Van," Finnick grunted.

" _Da_ , that's it." He smiled again, glancing at the vehicle. "It is the small ones we forget, yes?"

Finnick hesitated a moment, then smiled slightly. "Yeah." There was more truth in that than Vlad probably knew. The smile went.

The tiger gestured to the van, which was to the right of Finnick. "Nice paint," he said.

Finnick lazily turned a head to look at it. "Yea, ol' band used to use it..." He trailed off, frowning, then looked away for a few moments. He then turned his head over his shoulder towards the bike that was propped up. It was sitting quietly, the screaming motor silenced.

"Ain't nothin compared to that, though." The fennec nodded towards it, mild admiration in his voice. The tiger grinned, sharp white teeth etched across his face.

The features were neat and his jaw was well structured, but there was white tape over the bridge of the nose. Black-stained white tape, no less. Above that, however, were bright blue eyes that glinted from time to time, showing some limitless reserve of wonder that most mammals lost when they grew to his age. And if not for age, they would've lost it after seeing what he'd seen.

"You like it?" He gazed over, making no attempt to cover the pride he felt on his face. "She's new. A beauty, I call her _Kolesnitsa_." He stared for a few seconds more then turned back down to the fox. "She keeps me safe."

Finnick glanced up and raised an eyebrow. "Funny..." he said, "because I seen animals die ridin' bikes."

He held up a finger. "Ah, but they die only if the rider is unworthy. You must trust the bike, or else she will not trust you, and she will kill you." He spoke passionately, even through a smirk. "I step off that bike and thank her always for not killing me."

They both returned to silence again. Finnick's deep-set features had now moved beyond mere tiredness. Something else, some other kind of exhaustion you get when your body passes the threshold of night, starved of sleep and moves on into day again. His internal clock wanted to keep ticking, but the hands were broken and the time was all out of sync. The fox was still, only flicking those bright amber pupils about through half-closed eyelids to search the scene in front of him.

He rested his gaze on the flickering lights of an airliner in the black sky. Its body wasn't visible from so far away in such weak light, but Finnick could hear the near-silent whine of the engines in the distance. The red and white lights on the wing tips and fuselage flashed at intervals across the sky, silent and small. Finnick watched it for a while, the shifting of the tiny flashing lights the only indicator of the plane's progress.

"I ain't never flown before," he grumbled, nearly quiet enough as if it was to himself, but the tiger's ears turned.

Vlad looked down at him and raised his eyebrows. "Ah? What?"

Finnick saw the confusion on the tiger's face and slowly lifted his left arm flat out like a wing, leaving the right on the concrete. He was too drained to use both arms, but when he made a, albeit faint, whooshing noise of a jet engine through his closed teeth the tiger seemed to understand.

"Ah, _Da_ , I know." He held his arms out like wings too. " _Samolet_ ," he said in Russian. He put his arms down. "What did you call it?"

"Plane," Finnick replied, putting his arm back on the border and leaning on it.

"Plane," he tested through a thick accent. "The small words..." Vlad smiled again, putting his massive arms back in the same position. "You said you, uh, have never flown?"

The fox nodded, then paused. He still could see the lights flicker, though they were becoming increasingly distant with each flash. "Nah, but what's it like though? Looks scary, I mean I dunno, but you're so high up in such a tiny thing." The Tiger had found the plane too and was watching it as he spoke.

"Uh, is not too bad. Bit uh..." He hesitated. " _Nerovnyy_..." he said in Russian, searching for the English equivalent. "Bumpy?" He shrugged as he watched it.

Finnick frowned in confusion. The lights slowly disappeared in the distance. "Why's it like that? Ain't nothing to hit up there."

Vlad shrugged again. "Is uh, the air? Or something?" He too watched the plane disappear, then leant on the barrier and carried on. He looked down along the shadowed street below as he spoke. "I don't really know." He chuckled "But Revy, oh, she loved it. Some other small ones were crying, but she loved it. At the bumps..." He held his paw flat and Finnick turned his head slightly over to watch. Vlad moved his hand up and down, smiling behind bright blue eyes, "... she would jump up and down. " _Eto veselo dyadya!_ ","This is fun uncle!" He laughed deeply in between words. Finnick began to smile. "She ran the plane, and I had to follow and say sorry. She said it was a ride at the park, going up and down. They came over and told her to sit still..." He paused, grinning. "... four times? I think so." He chuckled. "Crazy." Then he said softly in Russian, " _no kravisyy_."

They both turned and looked out again. Finnick smiled, partly impressed with how well Vlad's English had improved, but mostly just entertained by the image of Revy running up and down a plane, screaming in her excited, jumbled Russian. He stared out a while longer.

"How's she doin' by the way?" Finnick asked. That same rare softness that was in his smile was now in the way he spoke. Just a hint, though; it was hard to make anything sound soft with a voice that deep and rough.

Vlad turned when the fox spoke. "Yes! yes. She is good, doing good," he said enthusiastically. He chuckled. "She says to me often, she say: "Uncle, when I see that confox again it better be with the money he owes!"

Finnick couldn't help but smile. That six-year-old cub was on his list of I.O.U's and was also at the top. "Tell her she can quit worryin'," he responded. "Jus' need to scratch some cash together first..." Finnick ended in a murmur, the humour leaving him.

The city was through the crucible of a dark, yellow-lit night and now the faintest hint of blue began to stain the eastern horizon. Side streets and alleys were still bathed in shadow and blackness, but the faintest bit of light in the sky had arrived, and dawn was only an hour or so away. Finnick saw this and wondered whether should he even bother sleeping now.

"So where is the other?"

The fox closed his eyes and sighed deeply, and any bits of humour left in his face were now fully gone.

"You know, uh, the red fox. " He held a flat paw just above his waist. "Uh, this tall."

Finnick's eyes opened. He rested his snout on two folded arms, themselves rested on the same grey concrete border. "He's gone." That hung in the air for a while.

The tiger twitched slightly, the smile fading from his face for the first time.

"Dead?" he asked gravely.

Finnick waved his paw. "Nah, nah." He stopped and thought for a second. "Chose a new career or sommin'..." He pulled a dismissive face and shrugged, still staring forward, trying to show a lack of care for the question. Anyone watching closely enough could've seen the way he flinched when it was asked, seen the forced nonchalant tone when it was answered. Anyone could've, but the tiger didn't.

"As what?" He smiled once more. " A cop?" he joked.

The fennec's eyes widened momentarily, and he whipped his head up to look at his friend. Just for a moment, the fox looked surprised, even exasperated. He then quickly recognised it as a joke and, just as quickly, regained his composure, turning his gaze back across the border slowly. The tiger didn't see, and for a while longer, the two returned to brooding.

Vlad then slapped the barrier with a big gloved paw. "Yes, well," he said."I did not find you just to talk. Though that is good. No, I found you for a good reason. I came to give you an offer." Part of Finnick had expected this, but he made no change of expression as the tiger explained. " _Kolesnitsa_." He pointed across the hall. "She was paid for by my boss. Revy can go to the school and have the health care, she can live a life with a future to see. _Da_ , and my boss, he helped me escape from the east. He took care of my small family when we needed most. He saved us. Then, well, then he took us too..." He gestured to the scene, admiration in his voice. " _Ray_ ," he said in Russian. "And safety. Revy has not known safety such as this all her short life. She knows it now, because of my boss and what he has done." He turned and looked at the fennec, who was still staring onwards. "Fin," It sounded more like ' _Feen'_ in his accent, "if your friend has left you, you need safety. My boss will help."

Finnick kept his gaze forward. "I been good so far."

The tiger beamed. "Well, what about better than good? What about great work and proper living. Of course, the pay is good. It will be with a man to trust. A good man." He paused. "My father always said to me, _pochemu v odinochku_?" Finnick turned his head and raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Why go it alone?" the tiger explained. "You join us and you join a business." He put a paw to his chest. "And, _moy drug_ , I swear it is just that." There was earnest in his voice, and Finnick realised that Vlad was genuine. This wasn't some corner street thug recruitment. This was an honest request. Still, join a 'business'? He turned to the expectant face. They locked eyes for a moment, those light blue's were searching and bright.

Finnick shook his head and shrugged slowly. "Sorry," he said, a tinge of regret in the words.

The tiger sighed. " _Vse v poryadke_... just an offer. If you ever need us." He unzipped the bomber jacket slightly while speaking and reached into a pocket, pulling out a postcard that looked tiny in his large gloves. Holding the piece of card down towards his knees, the fennec reached up and took it quietly. He turned it over, large and cumbersome in his own paws, and revealed a postcard of a vast illustrious dining hall, complete with white linen cloth set tables and gleaming chandeliers. On the front was written 'Welcome to luxury' in an equally lavish font and probably what Finnick assumed to be the same phrase in those strange Russian letters below that. He folded it twice, stuffed it in his back pocket, and looked at his friend.

"Uh, on the back. That is the information. On the back," Vlad said as he zipped his jacket back up.

"Thanks," Finnick murmured, then quickly averted his eyes back to the ground. He turned slowly and walked back to the Van.

"So we will see you soon? My boss can wait, but he is a busy mammal," Vlad said expectantly.

Finnick had pulled the grey driver door ajar and, still holding the handle, turned and smiled flatly at the tiger.

"I'll think about it, Vlad. No promises." He turned, mumbling, "Ciao," as he scrambled up into the driver's seat and slammed the door behind him. The metallic thump echoed all around the concrete walls and back into the foxes' large ears. He gave one final glance as the tiger turned and, rather dejectedly, walked back to his bike. "Tell Revy I'll get her the money soon," he called. The tiger twisted and opened his arms while walking backwards.

" _Moy drug_ , you can get it by Sunday if you meet my boss. It is a real business, my promise!" He gave one final grin and turned back to his bike. Finnick watched as he reattached the black helmet and straddled back onto _Kolesnitsa_. The bike purred softly when Vlad cycled the engine, then began to growl and roar as he twisted the handles. The figure gave one final wave towards Finnick and then was off in an orchestra of screeching tires and screaming acceleration, rocketing himself back down the ramps of the parking lot. The fox stared in his wing mirror for a while where the bike once stood, and listened for a good few minutes as Vlad sped down the cavernous lot and through the city blocks until the noise died down to nothing. The blue stain in the east was giving way to a new brilliant orange light, and the darkness in the west was slowly being chased away. Clouds could now be seen forming ghostly shapes along the rising light, and streets and alleys that were once gripped by the night were relinquished into the new pale glow. Finnick glanced down at the clock. Exactly five.

Behind those amber eyes was more than exhaustion. So much more, in fact, that when Finnick accidentally blinked longer than he should've fatigue grappled him and pulled him down. It dragged him beneath the waves before he could even react, and within a few short moments, the little fennec slumped down in the driver seat and slept.

* * *

 **Thankyou to hmwealsey for betareading this chapter**


	2. Two

**TWO**

 _"So I'm gone for a few months? Big deal! Yea, that's what I say, big deal. Yea, the heck with it! You're a big guy, you'll figure it out. Surviving is just in our nature. We're born to pick up the scraps, so stop with all the sulking, you know? When did you start sulking anyway? New trend, buddy? Stop gettin' all sad; get angry! Where's the anger? C'mon! Where's the steely gaze? One miss-step and the ol' swatter comes out, amirite'!? Go on!, Fin won't back down from anyone! Don't let em' push you around, let em' tell you what you are. Never let em' see that they get to you, tough guy. Animals push us to the bottom because they're scared of what they don't understand. So you're worried about work, so what? Since when did you not manage on your own? ...don't start with that buddy, you were in the streets long before I met you. You, heck, you were on the streets from when was it? Yeah! How long is that? Exactly. You'll do it, Fin. I believe in you, bud._

 _"And, hey, big guy, don't follow that postcard. Vlad's a nice dude but don't. I - we even - we've seen what those kinds of mammals do to people. Look at your brother._

 _"Don't think you'll be different, that it'll be different. That's what your brother said to you. When's the last time you saw him, huh? Anyway, you want me to arrest you? I won't want to do it, but, if it comes to it... sorry buddy; gotta' be that way."_

 _He was walking away, slowly strolling away with the setting sun on his bright yellow shirt. He looked over his shoulder and called: "And hey, big guy, If you finally embrace technology and just buy a phone, we can talk over this for real!" His back was turned, but Finnick could sense the smirk._

 _"Yeah, but how much that fancy shit cost? How much? Ain't got the money right now, ain't got no cash. Hell, I'm writin' cheques to cubs! You remember Revy?! Yeah! To her!"_

 _The call checked him, stopped him dead, but then it got bright. Really fucking bright, blinding. He couldn't see. It was bright as hell, but it was quiet. He'd stopped far off back turned, but Fin couldn't see him anymore. He heard him, though. He heard him clear as day._

 _"Well, what big guy?" He replied. It was like he was mumbling it to himself, but Fin could still hear it. He sensed no smirk anymore. Not a hint._

 _"What's money got to do with it?"_

...

It was a blink. It was a second, maybe even less. It was as if he had slumped down and woken himself back up in doing so. In fact, he probably had.

There was night and emptiness and silence in one moment, and in the next, life suddenly assailed him. The sun had risen over a pristine crystal blue sky with the only blemish being jet trails that wisped along the atmosphere. The streets below buzzed with midday life and traffic, and the entire world seemed to be bustling along. Birds tweeted, horns echoed around the blocks; silence was suddenly replaced with life and, for just a moment, Finnick was slightly stunned. He flickered the amber pupils to the dashboard. The little digital lines read out twenty-four past ten. The fennec breathed out slowly and rubbed his eyes.

There were no longer any dark recesses in the van, everything was illuminated. Even if it wasn't in direct sunlight, the radiance of the day still seeped into the shade. Everything was in that glow: the counter with its dusty, heated black plastic, the rear-view mirror with its slightly cracked left edge and a small bobble head of Oxen 'The ox' Rocks gripping a bass glued to the right corner of the dashboard just under the windscreen. A few silent moments passed by in front of the van, then Finnick slowly leant forward and rubbed a paw along the dash, collecting dust as he did so. The light was magnified through the windscreen, and in it an uncountable number of tiny specks of dust danced around. They moved wildly, blown by even the smallest disturbances like a million miniature flies. Finnick watched as one rose and fell in the light, wondering where it would end up.

After wiping the dust down off his pads on his black jeans, he then put his paws behind his head and breathed out. The flies raced about as -for just a few fleeting minutes- the Fox let his mind be blank. He didn't think about what he'd been given, didn't mull over what he'd do. He just sat quietly in the moment. He flickered his pupils about and watched thousands of small cars in stagnant motion along highways, streets and avenues, watched a previously artificially lit skyline now blindingly bright as the soaring glassy structures reflected the sunlight and watched hundreds of animals walking in all their separate ways in all their separate directions. The day also brought clarity to the horizon line as well. Peering to his left, Finnick could see the vast rolling mists from the jungle, dark and looming, and, switching his eyes to his right, he saw a minuscule blurry orange line that was the Sahara Districts' warmth-wall. The lot he was in was about as equidistant between the two other districts as possible, making them mere colours and suggestions in the far distance.

But in his immediate area, sound assaulted him. Millions more unseen cars, people, and things could be heard; distant shouts, horns, sirens, construction work. He could smell it too: the fresh midday breeze mingling with car fumes to create that smell, the smell, he'd associated with the city for all of his life. He'd never say it out loud, but it comforted him, all the sights, the smells; all of it. It allowed him to even feel slightly relaxed. Finnick let the city inhabit his thoughts in that moment, a small, fleeting, yet blissful distraction. He was very still.

Then there was a tapping.

It wasn't loud. It didn't crash around the van. It was just three short claw clinks on glass, but it was close. It was right on his driver window. Snapping up, Finnick turned his head just in time to see a small paw race down out of sight. Frowning, he reached for the door handle and pushed it open slightly, letting the cold breeze rush in and rustle his fur, sending the millions of dust flies spiralling wildly in the process. He poked his head out the door and in doing so saw a little tiger sprinting away as fast as his legs could carry him. He ran towards two other young mammals who were peaking around an SUV that was parked where Vlad's bike used to be. What was he running away from? The cog's whirred in Finnick's head as the tiger skidded to a halt on the side of the vehicle, much to the delight of the other two. What had he seen in the kid's hand?

Was it a marker pen?

The door flew open, and Finnick bounded out, fury in his features. He stopped dead when he saw the side of his van. The kid had written something right over the Popo & Izta artwork, that powerful image scrawled over in black ink. Two voices laughed hysterically, their high-pitched cries echoing around the concrete as the fox's frown deepened and his eyes widened as he read it. Some of it was misspelt, and the writing was hasty and scrawled, but it was still readable;

"I FULLY support the new CANIVORE movment. It was SO MUCH better when we did not break the food chain. IT'S IN THE NAME: PREDATOR (HUNTERS) and PREY (FOOD). HONK if you agree!"

Deep down, way down, a part of Finnick wanted to smile.

He wanted to smile because this kid had just done what he used to do. Back then, he'd thought he was the only one doing it, that it was the best kind of graffiti possible. Maybe not writing that exact thing, but writing stuff with the same sort of message behind it. The kind that made all the busy prey stop and be reminded for just a minute of a group they wanted to forget. It made them feel a little uneasy. The right kind of uneasy. It wasn't like he actually agreed with those carnivore fanatics, but deep down a part of the Fox thought that anywhere else the writing might even have been kind of funny.

But not on his van.

The kids were laughing, but he knew they'd take flight as soon as he made a move towards them. He stood watching them for an instant, fists clenched, teeth grinding. A sheep and a deer were pointing and mocking across the distance, the two looking about sixteen from what Finnick could see. He only caught a glance of the kids' features a few times, but when he did see the small orange tiger behind them, he thought he saw a little flicker of guilt across his face. Only when the other two were turned, though. Finnick squeezed his knuckles and drew in a short, sharp breath.

Now that, he thought, that pissed him off more than the writing. Finnick would bet anything that they'd gotten him to do it so that if anybody came looking for them they could blame it all on the predator and move on comfortably with their lives. Typical.

He glowered at their obnoxious grins. The two prey were facing him and the van, shouting some insults Finnick tuned out. The cub now stood a few paces behind them. He was. He didn't look a day over fourteen. He then had found the moment to look Finnick right in the eyes, with no smile or mocking smirk or anything like the other two were pulling. He was mute, timid and reserved, rubbing a paw up and down his arm in an admission of uneasiness. The small tiger looked sad, even afraid, but only in that brief moment when the backs of the other two were turned. The fennec held the gaze for a while and then retreated back towards his van. With the two prey pegging insults that washed over Finnick, he reached up and pulled open a backdoor. It swung open, and he climbed quietly into the back, his face sharpened into a frustrated scowl. The back of the van was illuminated as well now.

It was a classic nineteen eighty-nine Lobos Z1, distinct from the entire aesthetic of the vehicle that it belonged a few decades back, especially on the inside. The interior itself was one of the standard formats: cheaply made but reliable. However, after over many years of use, it had been modified, damaged, stripped, re-furnished, damaged again and modified again. In its current state -a one which Finnick would prefer to be its final- it was starting to show the effects of all of those adjustments with the surfaces being a little more worn and scratched. The counter along the left side of the van was very small, only about a foot high, with a gas stove, tiny microwave in a compartment above that, metal sink basin and tap built into another surface and small fridge just below that. The faded blue couch was the only seating area, its cover worn and scratched out, the springs rigid and rusty. It was opposite the metal doors that Finnick had just opened, that being the only way to get directly into the back of the van.

The furnishing was a bit utilitarian, and had definitely seen better days, but the interior still managed to feel comfortable, lived-in. Homely. This may have been thanks to walls being plastered with papers, photos, old artwork, band logos, notes and little oddities that the fox had collected. A significant portion of it was related to music, all of the paraphernalia for various bands and artists fixed about the walls, stuck to surfaces and even a few pieces taped to the roof. All of this combined into one to make the van feel, even despite the empty storage space in the centre, undeniably cosy.

But Finnick passed it all quickly. He moved purposefully, carrying the crisp outside breeze with him. He strode to the couch and reached down for his bat, which was in the same place he'd thrown it to this morning. He picked up the hardwood, gripped it tightly in his small hands, and moved quickly out the back again. The two prey had drawn back the insults slightly when they saw him disappear, but then reloaded for another bout as they saw the fox hop out the back of the vehicle and slam the door behind him. Size jokes, predator jokes. All the same boring shit really, Finnick thought.

He just wanted to scare them off, so instead of readying for a charge like he did when the garage was empty and he first saw Vlad on his new bike, he simply just strolled towards the two prey, bat in his right paw, and stared them down. The two took off laughing before Finnick was even close, with the tiger tagging close at their heels. All three dashed away to a nearby stairwell, their feet slapping hard against concrete. Finnick stopped and watched the little cub go until he'd rounded a corner leading to the staircase, then skidded out of sight.

He sighed. Sometimes it was hard to respect other mammals. There were times when he wondered why he even bothered.

He shook his head and dragged the bat towards his van. The writing was still bad; it'd net him quite a lot of hate if he didn't get it scrubbed off quickly, epically after the whole 'feral' crisis that went down a few weeks ago. Finnick walked past the scrawled ink and pulled open his grey driver door. While throwing his bat into the back and scrambling up to the seat as he had done countless times, Finnick thought about how to deal with it. Very few animals would believe that this was vandalism, especially when they saw a fox. He needed to go somewhere where he could get it off quickly and quietly; no other prying eyes. Shannon's? Finnick grunted while slamming the door shut. No, he didn't know the weasel well. He could very well just kick him out. Plus, there was that dead-eyed cheetah that worked for him that even Finnick thought was far too quiet. Shannon had a reputation for getting tied up with the wrong kind of mammals anyway, often even when he didn't plan to. He put the keys in the ignition and turned the engine into life. It sputtered and stammered more than usual, finally igniting the cylinders after what seemed like an eternity. Finnick put two paws on the wheel and twisted them back and forth.

Pottos?

He was alright; the Hippo didn't care for small talk or really any kind of talk. The assistant, what was it? C- something? She seemed unassuming, working in the background when he'd been there last. Which was... three months ago. He mulled over the choice as he shifted the long gear stick into reverse and pulled out of the parking space. Finnick winced as he heard his van sputter and squeal in protest of the gear change. Definitely needs a check-up. Potto's it was then. It was a bit of a tricky route, though. Mains, 125th, past the mall, left past the park then eastbound to Riverside as Finnick remembered it. Tricky, but manageable. The van sped out of the floor and began to descend the ramp. It was coming to half-past ten on a busy Wednesday, so the parking garage, which was an empty husk what felt like minutes ago, was now clogged with impatient drivers and noise.

When Finnick finally reached the last level, he flicked open a nearby glove-compartment and reached in to pick up his aviators then placed them deftly on his head. The fox felt as though he may finally leave the concrete lot and escape. Escape to a burning midday sun that only made the world look that bit brighter and dazzling from the shade of the car park.

Then he saw the toll.

He slammed his left paw - not wanting to smash the aviators - hard onto the wheel and swore out of frustration.

He'd only been a damn fool and forgotten about the booth.

Finnick found himself on a busy sun-baked Avenue a few begrudging exchanges of loose change and a short drive later. He caught the bright orange image of his van racing along, reflected in shop windows and parked cars, parking lot now completely out of sight. With the arrival of traffic on the six-lane road, he began to lift his foot off the pedal and press on the brakes. Finnick listened as they slowly squealed away until they were silent and the van was stationary.

Finnick's gold-rimmed aviators masked deep lines and sore eyes. He breathed out and let his head fall lazily back onto the hard seat. Cars rumbled around him, with his own old diesel engine adding to the undertones. It was still a scorching day, and not a cloud was in the sky. Even with the glasses on, the sun was incredibly bright, cooking both van and Fox in its intensity. It had also magnified through the glass, bathing his legs in light and heat but keeping his head in shade. Finnick sat there, expressionless, and waited for the lights to change.

A troop of female gazelles had wandered past the van and into the periphery of Finnick's vision, chatting and waving their coffee cups in loud, excited tones. The group all stopped dead, however, when one of them pointed at his van. He heard a muffled voice from their direction.

"Look at that..." It exclaimed, and the others gasped, barely audible through the traffic and the glass.

Realising after a few seconds that they'd read the writing and the gasp was addressed to him, the Fennec turned his gaze. The group stood there, all four of them gawking in disbelief at the writing. Finnick thought momentarily about winding down his window, about trying to give an explanation, but he knew it would be wasted breath. He saw it in their eyes, they weren't the type to listen. They were all scowling, a few had turned to glare at his driver window, but they were all still in a stunned silence. The fox glanced back at the lights four cars worth away. No sign of change. He was scowling, not because he cared what the group thought of him, but because he did care about whether they'd start making a fuss and try to pull him out or something. A few began to converse angrily with each other in hushed tones. The Fox drummed his claws along the wheel. He flicked his eyes to the lights.

Finnick was sure they'd say something more, or do something. He expected it, prepared for it. But they didn't have the resolve to challenge him, so the group turned and went, undoubtedly hissing to each other about the writing. He saw the look of disgust on their faces, the vitriol in the way they spoke. He turned forward again, an even deeper scowl now scoring his face. Maybe he should've said something. Maybe.

Suddenly the traffic was moving again, all lurching forward through the midday sun. The Fox shook his head, dismissing the thoughts about the group and trying to remember the way to the mechanic's. Mains, 125th... it all came quickly back to him, and he stepped on the gas. The van lurched again, clearly labouring. The wind whistled by the windows, and the city slowly moved back into motion as he began to pass it by, but he didn't make much progress down the street. The traffic quickly ground to a halt at the next set of lights. Once the brakes had squealed away and the van had stopped, Finnick pulled open the same glove compartment he had taken his aviators from and rooted around for something to listen to. He brushed through packets of blank CDs with artists names and albums scrawled on them in black ink, knowing that whatever he put on it would have to be loud. Deafening, even. That group wouldn't be the last ones to notice, and others might get a lot more vocal. He knew the type. Finnick paused, then stretched his neck out as if preparing for a fight, cracking it left and right, then moving it slowly in a clockwise motion. The sooner he got to the garage, the better.

...

The van rounded the corner of an old, low ceiling warehouse, and the mechanic's finally came into sight. The day was still bright but had somehow gotten hotter; the black tarmac of the road was shimmering with heat. The pavement was baked in a burning glow, and there was still no cloud to spoil the sky above him. The little clock on his dashboard, which he could barely see behind both his aviators and the blinding light, read ten to two, but the new lines on Finnick's face made it look as if he'd been driving for much, much longer. He sighed tiredly when the blue door came into sight, and his large ears flopped down in relief.

It was at the end of the short street in front of him, both sides lined by old industrial buildings. A few odd cars were parked here and there along the lane, but no working animal of downtown had any reason to be here among this forgotten industry. Finnick realised he had been wrong after all; it wasn't eastbound from the park, it was a straight shot south towards Baobab. Straight damn south, of course, it was. Where had he gotten this whole eastbound crap from? Although, it was kind of hard to follow an internal compass when you were getting screamed at by angry prey. Suprême NTZ had done well at blocking out most of it with their loud bass lines and rolling foreign rap, but some mammals really were that loud. The drive had frayed Finnick's nerves, made his eyes now flick about in cold and suspicious movements-more so than usual-but he was here now, passing industrial buildings on the fringes of downtown.

And they were all so bare and lifeless.

The windows were boarded hastily and carelessly, the signs scrubbed in muck and dust. Graffiti was scrawled on every door, dirty brick wall and window. Some of the work was impressive: large names or cartoonish characters colourfully stencilled out across portions of the walls. Most of it was just black tagging, however, a cheap bid by bored mammals to try to get their 'name' recognised. The weather tried its best to make the street seem pleasant and inviting under the fresh sunlight, but it struggled. Struggled with the emptiness and abandonment. It was the kind of area the county government wouldn't put on their bright, welcoming posters. The kind they'd rather divert traffic and attention from and get redeveloped or cleaned up as soon as possible

The kind of place Finnick was used to.

So it was strange to have a working garage here, tucked away from the noise and actual customers, but there it was, the big faded sign exclaiming in bright blue lettering that "Potto's Pickups" was "Always open!" As Finnick drove closer, he saw that the door was open as promised and that there was no car in the space. He ploughed on to the entrance, passing down the lane until he pulled quickly in.

The van stopped inside with a jolt, the noise of the engine suddenly bouncing around the walls and into Finnick's ears. Everything was black and hidden for a moment as his eyes adjusted. He stopped on the metal tracks of the vehicle lift. While reaching around and pulling his keys out of the ignition and stuffing them in his pocket, silencing the grumbling of his diesel engine, he pushed open his driver door with one quick throw of his free arm. He hopped out, slammed it behind him, and took his aviators off, sliding them into the V-neck of his black bowling shirt.

Finnick realised he hadn't changed in well over a day now. The black jeans were now cooking the fur on his short legs. His black shirt was not really helping the situation either, but the chances of him changing that were next to none. Thankfully, the heat was relatively refreshing inside the garage, and the shade allowed him to finally escape the heat of the high sun.

The ceiling rose up quite high like most typical garages, but its overall floor space was small, very small; there were only two car spaces in the entire place, one occupied by his van and the other by a shell of a sedan that looked as if it had just been pulled from a scrap-heap. Loud pop music bounced around the walls, originating from a little speaker stand on a counter beside the sedan shell. It was incredible that the speaker even found a place among the clutter; tools, boxes, car parts, and machinery were strewn about nearly everywhere and made the whole room look more like a chop-shop than an ordinary mechanic's. A scattering of flags and posters lined the walls, some pictures of the Zealots starting line-up, others of famous Indy, stock and drag racers. There were a lot of pictures of cars as well. Some of it seemed more like client reference than decorations, but it was so hard to separate anything from everything else in the mess that it was too difficult to tell. The shop, unsurprisingly, stunk of petrol and grease. Finnick looked around briefly for Potto. He was greeted by a loud female voice instead.

"Hold on, give me a second!" It called. "Been tryna' fix this axle for a week!" It was loud, sharp and clear as day as it echoed around the walls. It was an accent Finnick had heard throughout most of the city, especially downtown, but there was still something else mixed in, something more. There was an edge to it, by design or not, but it managed to stay excitable, not challenging. It came from the other side of the sedan, and Finnick watched there, frowning. A second later a white bunny jolted up and smiled at Finnick.

She was pure snow white, but large portions of her were stained with grease and oil, so much so that she appeared to be grey at first glance. She had a small plaster taped to the left side of her forehead, just above alert pale-green eyes. Her blue mechanic overalls were stained as well, their sleeves rolled up past the elbows and the front embroidered with "PP" for the company logo. Nearly all the pockets were full of tools and equipment, so much so that when she moved a percussion band followed her.

The bunny grinned.

"Crews," she greeted, but before Finnick could even hope to respond, she'd hopped into the shell and was sat at the wheel. She was moving faster than the speed of light and with liveliness Finnick rarely saw, flicking her paws about along the open dashboard, adjusting wires, switches and whatever else while she spoke.

"I'll be with you in just a moment. This guy's been playin' up like no tomorrow an' all he needs is-" She stopped short, and Finnick waited.

She finished adjusting, then, moving slowly and carefully, as if not to disturb whatever she had done, placed her paws on the metal wheel. She turned it slowly, a triumphant smirk beginning to etch across her face as she did so. Suddenly, there was a great grinding sound from the sedan and something metal fell off the bottom, clanging noisily to the floor. The smile dropped.

"Damn," she breathed. "You jus' don't want to play nice do you?"

Finnick was still, patient.

The Bunny sighed then quickly bounded out the vehicle, which had no door.

"So," she said, eyes wide and smile bright, "what's the problem?"

Finnick didn't answer at first, merely letting the bunny's alert eyes travel to the side of his van.

She saw it, read the text for a few moments, then grimaced."That's not-"

"I ain't done it," Finnick cut in, "some kids thought it'd be a joke. Penned it while I was sleepin'," he explained tiredly.

The mechanic rose her eyebrows and slightly jerked her head back in shock at first, a reaction Finnick was used to getting after people heard him speak for the first time, but now settled on a suspicious stare. He looked directly at the mechanic, his steely gaze locking with her green pupils.

"Look, aight'," he began slowly, "s'been hell to get here, so just wash it off and I'll get lost."

She spun something round in her mouth. Finnick saw that she was chewing on a toothpick, moving it with her tongue and frowning in thought. "They've got places you can wash your car ya know. Funny thing called a car wash."

"Well no shit," he snapped, "thought about that." He breathed out and levelled his gaze once more. "Too many eyes, plus prey might take a look at it an' think I'm crazy."

The Bunny snorted, and then put her paws on her hips and leant in, eyebrows high, as if to say 'what do you think I am?'

Finnick's scowl deepened "Yeah, yeah, I can see," he said, clear annoyance in his voice. "An' anyway, engines makin' noises every gear change so it thought a check-up was-"

The mechanic then sprung into life very suddenly. "Sure, I'll take a look." She made a move around the sedan, scepticism now apparently gone, and pointed to a single dirty seat by a dusty coffee machine. "Our fine-dining area if you're in the mood for luxury coffee beverages."

Finnick paused for a second, then grunted and walked to it, frowning at her sudden lack of cynicism. He hopped up onto the chair, and, being so small, let his entire lower body lounge on the seat. The stuffing had all fallen out, and the green plastic felt like granite, but Finnick couldn't bring himself to care. It was placed in-between the two car bays so that he could watch Crews with haggard eyes as she talked, worked and talked some more.

"Not nice. Tried it once. Fatto puts rat poison in it. Probably." She went out of sight behind the van and called, "I'm talkin' about the muddy-water machine. Don't drink it!"

Finnick realised how dry his throat was. Even to him, it felt like a lawnmower in his gullet. Most likely sounded like one too. Maybe he needed some muddy water.

Crews quickly came back into view, leaning around the van. "Marker pen?"

Finnick had rested his head on the back of the chair. He turned it slowly and gave a short nod.

The mechanic smiled. "Don't worry, got just the thing." She swerved right out of sight again. "He's not here by the way if you were lookin' for the fat-ass. Well, he is, but he's not helping. Never does." Finnick heard her snort indignantly from behind the van. "Nah, too busy bettin' the company's money on games."

Finnick heard her put something down. She came quickly back into sight again just around the side van but didn't look at Finnick, instead glaring at the corner of the room. Finnick followed her stare to a small office situated just behind the second car lot where the stripped sedan was. There was an old blue door, the paint flecked off nearly entirely with the writing 'Potto West' imprinted in an unbefitting gold-coloured font on the clouded glass. It was small, being only about four or so meters in area. Finnick looked through the large window into the office, past the broken blinds, and could see that it was a little bit cleaner than the rest of the garage, but not by much. It was still cramped, with a couple of cheap chairs, an old table and metal shelving taking up a lot of the space, clutter strewn on all of it. It was made even more cramped, however, by the massive hippo dominating the room. Potto was reclining on an undersized plastic office chair that looked about ready to snap, hands behind his head and deep bored eyes fixed on a small TV, the screen facing away from the window. The TV was placed on the same table he was resting his massive feet on. The grey hulking figure was in blue overalls but was clearly not in the mood to work.

"You hear that you greedy bastard!" Crews shouted. Potto didn't even glance up. "You're the one who's running this shit into the ground!"

Finnick gazed on as her eyes flicked angrily about the hippo for a moment, waiting for a reaction. She received none.

The bunny shrugged, and then turned to Finnick.

"Wasted words."

She disappeared behind the van again.

Crews carried on searching and talking while Finnick stayed in the chair. "If you're expecting a welcome from him, keep expecting. For a mounth he's been content to stay in there. Ever since I started running it, at least. That Furd two door is there just to keep me entertained. You believe that?!"

Finnick looked over to it. I was a mess, barely even resembling a car.

"Drivetrains a bitch." She'd appeared back into sight, clutching what looked to be toothpaste in her left paw. She gestured to the vehicle. "Not like I don't know it, but the engine's always more exciting." She smiled. "Always. Just need to find one. Not happening anytime soon with this joker here." She glared over to the office once more. "Couldn't get a wheel if it rolled over him." She reached over and banged hard on the window and shouted at the glass, glaring at Potto again. "You hear that you fuckin' ugly statue!"

He didn't even look up from the screen. Finnick was sure the hippo had heard but had just chosen not to react. She waited a moment, then sighed and strode back to the Van. She reached down to the front of it and picked up a bucket filled with cloth, tubes, and other cleaning products. Crews moved to the side of the van where the writing was scrawled and set the bucket down. She stared intensely at the vehicle for a few moments, then whirled round to face Finnick.

"You do this?"

Finnick began to growl. "Look, already told you-"

Crews waved her paws. "No, no, no," she said quickly. "I mean, this." The bunny turned back to the van. "The painting, the art. It's really good." She put a paw up to it and kept it there for a moment. "Beautiful. I always liked the old Lobos's. Liked them when they were really tuned up. Some overdid it, but this..." She took her paw away."...this is good."

She began to move once again, and the world seemed to speed up to match her. Crews flicked open the toothpaste and started squeezing out portions of the tube over the writing. She did this in-between scrubbing down with a cloth that she'd retrieved from the bucket beside her. Finnick had seen this trick before and had expected that she would use it. The fox then, oddly, spoke first.

"Got any food?" he asked quickly. It was clear from his clipped tone that he hated charity, which he did. He just hated being as hungry as he was more.

She spun quickly, mid-wipe, then answered, "Oh yeah, some shortbread. Just underneath the counter to your left."

Finnick hopped off the chair and put his paw on the nearest cupboard door, looking at Crews.

She nodded in confirmation. "You got it." She turned back to the van. "Bought it yesterday for my combined breakfast and lunch -'brunch' I guess-" She chuckled. "But yeah, dig in if you're hungry."

Finnick opened the door and began to rustle around in the space. Crews kept scrubbing, wiping away the pen into dark streaks across the art, then abruptly stopped and dropped the cloth and toothpaste into her bucket. She then strode quickly to the speakers and picked up her little phone from the stand. It was an older model, cracked and scratched in just about every corner. She switched it on and began tapping on it.

"You got a preference? Like music?"

She looked up for a heartbeat, but the Fox didn't answer, still rooting around for food.

"Alright, ok. Same playlist it is then. 'Summer Hits.'" She tapped again. "If it ever loads cus' the damn connection in here is trash..." She trailed off, mumbling to herself as she swiftly clicked the phone back onto the stand. A heavy beat filled the garage once more as the bunny made her way rapidly back to the van.

Finnick's ears dropped as began to hear the 'music', and his eyes widened slightly. Maybe he should've said something. He kept his large ears flat onto his head as he kept rooting for the food through all of the parts, packets and other clutter.

Crews spoke over the 'music'. "Y'know, you're very quiet. Think I seen you before. Back when Potto used to actually do something with his lazy ass. Actually, have I seen you before?" She had returned to wiping down the van, half of the writing now scrubbed off.

Finnick had pulled out the shortbread packet and carried it back to the chair. He jumped back up onto the dirty seat, shortbread packet in hand, and began to take a few out and slowly start munching on them. They were surprisingly fresh, the sugar and pastry crumbling on his tongue as he bit into them.

Crews scrubbed away the last remnants as she spoke, watching what she was doing. "Cus' I definitely remember this van. Tough to forget. Classic like this." There was a pause.

"You livin' in it?" she asked.

Finnick looked up, scowling. The bunny was now quiet but still scrubbed away the final 'honk if you agree' line. The soulless pop 'music' kept blaring and echoing around the high walls.

Finnick swallowed a piece of chewed-up shortbread before speaking. "So what if I do?"

She had wiped down the last line with one swift movement and then had turned to answer. "No, don't worry. I'm not judging," she reassured. "I'd live in something like this if I owned it." She tossed the toothpaste and rag into the bucket, then wiped her paws down on the legs of her overalls. She smiled at Finnick.

He looked back with a frown.

"S'cool, you get freedom and stuff. Drive where you want, you know?" The bunny turned back to face the van. "God knows I wished every day for that when I was a kid," she said softly.

Finnick turned away, still holding the scowl.

Crews clapped her paws together. "Right!" she exclaimed. "Let's see what's wrong." She walked over to the front and popped the hood open, eyes transfixed and body moving with even more energy. Finnick looked over and noticed how she had a near permanent smirk on her face while she worked. All the movements were quick, energetic. It was tiring to watch.

"I love this stuff. Absolutely adore it. See, we didn't get much business in the last few months or so," she said. Her eyes were locked onto the engine bay, which was out of sight for Finnick, and she leant in and out as she spoke, inspecting every angle. She didn't look up once as she continued. "You know who to blame for that. But whatever I guess, the sedan's okay, but I do love new stuff. Variety is the spice of life, as they say. Holds true for us mechs, I'll tell you that much."

Finnick was barely listening. He looked back into the office. Potto hadn't moved.

There was a short pause as the mechanic began to inspect the engine. "So was it a gear change problem or...? No, wait, grindin' sound? Distinctly like two gears clanging out of place? That's not a bad kit, though. You'd get a good price for that. Hook it up with- an' maybe some- yeah. That'd be sweet" She leant in for a second then spoke in a muffled, excited voice. "Oh, that's it right there. Damn! This ain't bad!" She pulled her head out again. "How much you pay? Don't tell me. Custom job, right?"

Finnick didn't even try to answer. Whatever inner voices she was contending with seemed to have told her something, as she quickly pulled about and fiddled with the van's inside.

She had lined tools on a wheeled metal table just behind her. Crews had positioned her paws over the engine, ready to start, but they froze. "Wait. Was it only with the clutch?"

Finnick turned his head lazily and just looked at her.

She waved her hands dismissively. "It's not the engine," she said, and slammed the hood shut. She rounded the side of the van, then reached for a small control panel with buttons on it on the vehicle lift. She pressed one down with her thumb, and the van began to rise. The whirring of the mechanism echoed through the halls, and as the white bunny leant on one of the metal columns that the Van was rising along, she looked at Finnick.

The fox avoided her gaze and hopelessly prayed that she wouldn't start talking again.

"See, it's not to do with your engine." She waved her free paw as she talked, as though what she was saying as common knowledge. "Simple oil change, no biggie. It can screw up your transmission later on if you don't change it, but no problem."

Finnick had taken a couple of shortbread biscuits out and ate them, but didn't feel the need to chow down on the whole packet. He threw it onto the side onto the counter and sat silently. The eyes were gone, glazed over. Uninterested. Tired. It was clear the fox was somewhere else entirely.

Still didn't matter to Crews.

About a minute later, the van had elevated to the mechanic's neck, and she let go of the button. "I'll just change this for you, and you can 'get lost'," she said, then ducked under the van and drew her ears back to stop them from colliding with the vehicle.

/So Crews toiled on, changing the oil, talking. She was about halfway through letting the old gear oil pour out into a container when she spoke up again.

"So" she was hunched down underneath the van, kneeling on one knee as she kept the plastic tub stable with two paws, "where were you when this whole feral crisis thing? What's it? Night something?" She snorted. "I mean, I didn't see much of it; those weeks I did a heck-load of triple shifts to work on a client's new two-door. I didn't have much time to get any info about it. You?"

Finnick hesitated and looked over, wondering if she would just carry on. The lines under his eyes were deep and dark, but they only told half the story. Completely breaking the sleep cycle was never a good idea, but it's not like fixing it would make a difference; Finnick knew he had the kind of exhaustion even sleep couldn't solve.

He shrugged at the mechanic, who was looking expectantly at him for an answer.

"What's that mean?"

He shrugged again.

The bunny slanted her gaze, raising one quizzical eyebrow, then smiled slightly. She looked at him like that for a few moments, then turned her head back to the container.

"Well," she said with a smile, "you make a compellin' point."

Finnick didn't say anything.

She shifted her body slightly underneath the van, clearly uncomfortable in the hunched position she had to be in when holding the container. "Anyway, I got lucky I guess. Stayed out of the firin' line. Well, 'firin' line' is a bit of an overstatement really. Honestly, it got blown up into something bigger than it was. What was it, two animals got injured? Mild scratches and the like for the first? And that moose, I forget the name, he came out of hospital pretty quick. Granted, that was pretty scary when I watched footage of it. Anyway, it was just more of the social stuff that got attached to it. Like, the whole 'biological' argument found new life with it, seeing folks feral hasn't done wonders. Oh well, the discussion usually ends nowhere. "

Finnick looked over to the bunny for a few moments. There was still suspicion and tiredness and his usual frown, but there was also something else mixed into the deep amber eyes below. A slight appreciation, softness maybe.

Maybe.

But as soon as it was there a moment later it was gone. Finnick turned his head away and looked back off into the middle distance, the hint of emotion away far before Crews could see it.

Time passed on by as it did. Crews worked. She talked. She talked some more. Finnick barely even moved once to respond, but even silence was good enough for Crews. Even the slightest hint, even the suggestion of a reaction, and she was off again. It would be about anything: cars, her job. Granted, it was mostly cars, but it somehow managed to never devolve into small talk. She, by some means, kept everything she said real, kept everything down to earth.

And, though he would never admit it, Finnick found it strangely helpful. It was incessant, and it was damn annoying, but it kept him grounded in an odd way. Crews, her talking, her constant movement, it was a sort of anchor he held onto. If he let it go, he'd slip off into the inviting darkness. The fatigue was already pulling and tugging at his eyelids.

It was also a distraction.

Because every time Finnick thought about what he would do after the bunny finally slammed the hood and asked for the money, he felt a belt tightening around his gut. He passed it off as hunger. He knew, really knew, actually knew, that it was something much worse.

Crews reached up and put two gripped two paws on the hood, and then slammed it down. It gave a sonorous metal clang as it snapped into place, the noise echoing around the walls for some time.

She looked up at the fox and smiled. "All done!"

He turned slowly and looked at the bunny for a few moments.

"How much?" The usual low growl now sounded more like a rock slide with the heavy fatigue in his voice.

She smiled. "Seventy. Little bit less than it should be what with the longer oil change and all, but hey. Dumb business tactic to try to persuade you to come back, I guess."

He then hopped off his chair and walked over to the back doors of his van. He swung them open and jumped up.

This is why he had dreaded this moment. All the space, all the empty space.

The safe was small, hidden away under a sink basin and long combination that only Finnick knew, and one that he had never written down. He reached in, brushing past a few small other treasures, and silently picked up all the cash he owed in two tiny paws. He had found a few spare bills to pay for his fare at the toll booth back when he'd left the parking lot. He wasn't forced to see the space then.

Now he was.

He started breathing deeply, just staring at it. One long breath in, one long breath out. A million things sifted through his head. They raced and screamed and shouted and panicked, but on the exterior, there was just the deep breathing; the deep breath in, the deep breath out.

He licked one finger with a small pink tongue and flicked out seventy dollars from the rest. He rested the money back in the safe, then slammed it shut and carefully slotted the sink basin back into position, covering the cubby-hole up again. Finnick then hopped out the van, slammed the door behind him and rounded the left side to give the money to Crews.

She was leaning on the metal column, still chewing a toothpick with folded arms, then reached down and gripped the money when Finnick handed it over. They both held it for a few moments, maybe a second. Crews looked at him with a slightly humorous expression, waiting for the Fox to release the green paper.

"You want to arm wrestle for it?" she asked.

Finnick didn't respond, but he let the money go, and Crews stuffed it into one of her pockets. The fox stared at the front pocket she had put the money in for a few heartbeats, then walked slowly to his grey driver door, scratching the back of one of his ears as he did so. The frown was on, furrowed in thought.

The office door then suddenly swung open, and Potto had leant into the garage. Finnick looked up at the hulking figure and blinked hard, making sure he hadn't hallucinated the hippo actually moving.

But there he was.

"Remember the cut, Crews." The voice was low, nearly as low as Finnick's. It was also boring and flat, something that didn't come as a surprise to the fox after seeing his expression in the office.

Crews turned and smiled the sweetest, innocent smile she could.

"I will, honey." She tilted her head sideways, the wide green eyes now shooting daggers at the hippo. "And while you're up you could help me with some work, or you content to sit on your high throne until this place shuts down?"

Potto gave a flat look at the bunny. "The cut?" he repeated.

Crews dropped the smile, along with any pretence of friendliness. "Yes, I know the cut, you asshole! Stop treatin' me like a damn idiot."

The hippo held the flat expression on his deep, aged face for a few moments, then gazed at Finnick.

"Hey, Fin. You aight?" he asked.

Finnick shrugged.

The hippo nodded curtly, looked back at Crews for a moment, then leant back into his office and slammed the door behind him.

Both Fennec and mechanic stared at the door for a few seconds, then Crews moved first.

"Right. You off?" She stepped over to the sedan shell then stopped. She turned to Finnick and smiled. "Dumb question."

Finnick pulled the keys out of his jeans and pulled open the grey driver-door with his free paw.

He then scrambled into the driver's seat and sat himself down, closing the door as he did so. Finnick reached to the ignition and cycled the engine, taking out his gold-rimmed aviators and placing them on his head with his other paw as he did so. He turned back to the mechanic, who was still leaning on the sedan shell.

She smiled at him.

"If you hear those noises again, I'll take a look," she said.

He turned. Then, halfway into putting his keys in the ignition, he froze. With his other paw, he slowly reached over and gripped the door frame for a few moments. Crews watched carefully as the fox stared at her through the clouded shades.

"Caio. An'... thanks," he said quickly. It was a mumble, low and very rough, but there was sincerity mixed in.

A rare sincerity.

The mechanic gave a little mock salute then laid down on her back and pushed herself underneath the vehicle to work on it once more.

Finnick turned his gaze back up to the rear-view, lifted the handbrake, pulled the gear into reverse then pressed on the gas, carrying the van quickly out into the blinding summer sunshine.

* * *

 **Thanks again to my beta, hmweasly.**


	3. Three

**THREE**

Finnick pushed on the brake, slowly gliding to a halt and stopping parallel with Commodore Park. The little lines on his clock read ten to eight.

Cars lined the sidewalk, parked adjacent to colourful apartments of varying sizes. As the rest of the street and park greenery was slowly dipped into warm shade, the tops of some apartments and a few tall trees bathed in the last golden light of a descending sun. A cool breeze whistled through it all, a silent and unnoticed force among a loud and bustling centre. The sun was setting on the bustle of Savannah Central and Finnick was-for the moment at least- where he wanted to be.

The lights flicked green, and the fox pressed his foot onto the accelerator. He spun the wheel right, then skilfully pulled into a space on the sidewalk. Finnick pulled up on the handbrake and cut the engine. As the final groans of the cylinders died off, the city ambience began to seep into the van. Horns, shouts, and that unspecified hum off all the cars in all the streets combined with the crisp breeze. Finnick let his mind slide out, and let there be an empty space in his head for the city to seep in too.

The greenery of Commodore Park was on his right, the tall central stone fountain in shadow but still gushing water out into a clear pool. Only a few animals still resided within, and at a glance it was peaceful, quiet. Finnick couldn't deny that, but he wasn't here for the park.

He was here for the bar on his left.

It wasn't very big; a narrow plot nestled underneath two stories of a small flat block, itself pressed between two much taller and wider apartments. The bar was of a typical urban style, the kind where you squeezed through a tight entryway to then only be surprised by the space and size of the actual interior. This was something Finnick was used to, though. What kept surprising him, however, and what kept him coming back, was the distinct glow and warmth that emanated from the windows. It was subtle, the light, but for Finnick, it was like some heavenly threshold, some incredible force that put a paw on his shoulder and told him not to worry, told him not to think about what had happened today.

Told him to feel alright.

Because he knew it was all a series of distractions, but it was nevertheless comforting to see the dark shapes move about through the clouded glass. The larger and closer one he knew was Leo, undoubtedly cleaning all the glasses and wiping down all the surfaces until they were like mirrors. There were murkier shapes at the back, all leant over a surface. Two were moving rapidly, their large ears silhouetted against the glass. The other was still, undoubtedly focused. She always was.

Finnick always held this moment, this moment of time where he knew that he had a place to go that was as comforting as this.

Because as his eyes rested on the light, his face took a much softer appearance as all of the stress of the day drained. When it was off, that stern mask, it was strange to see how the amber eyes moved. They were a lot slower, more centred, more deliberate. They took on a strange kind of childlike curiosity. It spoke to some hidden force in the fox that was buried or had been buried. Very few had seen it. The frown, the scowl, the anger, all of it, gone. It was a fleeting moment of expression, then his face set again into a deadpan and the driver door flew open.

Finnick jumped out onto the cold concrete and slammed the door behind him, reaching up and locking it with his keys quickly. He turned and looked up to the door, the shapes now suddenly at a much higher angle from his natural height.

There was a reflection in the door. His. It was faded and unclear, but he still saw the black jeans he'd forgotten to switch out and bowler shirt he'd worn for far too many days in a row now. _Oh well_ , he thought, he wasn't changing that anytime soon. His face, though, looked worse. Deep grooves from his eyes seemed to almost be carved into his features, and bits of fur along his ears and tail were stuck out and frayed.

The tired, run down, mad eyed, choke-on-pills look.

Just what he was aiming for, Finnick thought dryly. Just that.

He stared the crazy looking fennec down as he took a few steps across the sidewalk, then pushed the heavy door open. Finnick slipped through the gap quickly, crossing from a cool late-day breeze that nipped at his ears to a temperate, heavy air that warmed them back up again. He heard the door click quietly as it rested behind him.

 _Mane Bar_ was as it always was. Polished wooden tables and chairs meant for taller mammals lined the wall to Finnick's left. Their places were all empty, the sparkling table-tops displaying menus, napkins and cloths to empty seats. Posters, pictures and various oddities lined the walls. Framed photos and documents depicting of the founding of the city were proudly hung across a bare-brick surface, along with an uncountable number of other pictures, cut newspaper headlines and portraits of stoic-looking politicians. All the walls were covered like this in some shape or form; even planters full of small plastic bushes and shelves lined with other historical objects found a place. It was one of the things Finnick always appreciated, not just because it made the bar feel that bit more homely, but because he knew Leo had hung it all up himself.

He brushed past one of the chairs and slowly made his way to the barstool. He could only make out the suggestions of movement behind the bar as the wooden surface rose high above Finnick's eye-level. He made his way over to one of the bar stools, pulled it across to him, then clambered up.

The big eyes and bright grin of Leo greeted him.

"Fin!, Good to see you." He greeted. The voice was solid, loud and clear. It was almost a shout, but Leo was never great at controlling volume.

Finnick looked up. The lion was as he always was. That same irrepressible smile, that same determined gaze, that same self-assured eye-contact that other mammals might squirm under. His face was set, assured. All the features had a purpose, all the lines were controlled. Each and every scowl from the clipped eyebrows, each and every shimmer from the bright orange eyes, all of it. His own Mane was trimmed to an incredible degree, kept in the perfect balance of the 'messy look' that many of his species adopted. Below the confident face, he was dressed in a prim white shirt with the classic-looking _HMB_ bar logo embodied on the front, and below that were his black slacks, rolled and pressed to perfection until they were as smooth as velvet. Finnick locked eyes with the lion and smiled tiredly.

"Likewise, Leo."

The huge lion replied in kind with a toothy grin, displaying his impressively well-maintained teeth. Finnick could've sworn he caught his reflection in them for just a moment.

The bartender drummed the surface loudly with his paws five times in a quick beat, then breathed sharply in. "Right!, Bat or Chaser?"

"Bat."

"You want a bottle again?" he asked, already half- leaning down to look under the bar.

Finnick gave a short nod.

Leo nodded and leant down. Finnick heard glass bottles clinking with each other as he searched with his huge paws. "So," he began, still crouched down and searching for the bottle, "we in a talkin' mood or a drinking mood?"

Finnick snorted. "We'll see," he mumbled dryly.

"Cryptic. I like it," Leo responded. He came back up with a bottle of _Batwiser_ , then placed it carefully in front of the fennec.

"Only got a few of them left, but I've got a delivery coming soon -like tonight- though, so don't worry about runnin' dry or anything like that." Leo reached under the bar for another second, then produced a small metal bottle opener. He placed it beside Finnick, then smiled.

"That'd be too much for one fennec, even with _your_ tolerance."

Finnick smirked, staring at the two items Leo had placed down on the counter. He took both the opener and bottle, then quickly popped off the cap in one fluid motion. He watched the vapour as it rose from the newly opened beer.

Leo placed the opener back under the bar then gestured to his right with his free paw. "Game's goin'. Rhys went out to do an errand, but he'll be back soon."

Finnick turned his head to look.

The corner of the room that Leo was motioning to was arranged a lot like the rest of the bar was. It had the regular seating: tables and chairs pressed up against the decorated walls to save space, but with one marked difference, however. A round table found a place on the floor, a set reserved for larger parties or groups at peak times and meant to seat eight mammals. The polished surface was cleared of all cloths, cutlery and plates; all made way for a poker game.

There were three animals currently sat around the table. The quietest was a small doe sat on a side of the table that faced Finnick and the lion. She wore a simple grey T-shirt under a large green apron, itself covered by colourful floral patterns. ' _Gena's Florists_ 'was printed along the top. She was quite small, especially for her species, so she sat on a borrowed seat cushions to boost her height to an operable level. Fresh hazel-brown eyes -their depth almost palpable- peered out.

But behind a clean and maintained appearance, Gena kept a sense of resoluteness about her, but in a strangely subtle way. Finnick always found it hard to put a claw on what exactly made her seem like this, but it may have been the absolute sweetness that she operated with. She was incorruptible like few mammals were and good like even fewer still. Her kind attitude never failed, and from the way she talked, acted, spoke -whatever- it never seemed like it would.

Gena sat very quietly, relaxed in her chair and with her two paws together and rested on the table. She was staring into the distance, clearly deep in thought. A slight flick of the eyes, and suddenly Gena had locked eyes with the small fennec at the bar.

She gave him a smile, and he returned it in kind, tipping his bottle in recognition. Even if he wanted to, which, on this rare occasion, he didn't, Finnick couldn't repress a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

" _Ciao, Fin!_ " A male voice called in Italian.

Finnick remembered the other two figures at the table. He turned to the source of the voice, and was greeted by a wide grin of a murky-coloured Italian wolf. Adelfo wore a red T-shirt with a strange kind of claw-like pattern across the front, and below that donned very bright ripped jeans. His sporadic movements, be it his ears that flicked and batted constantly or his blue pupils that darted about and never seemed to focus for more than a few seconds at a time, were relentless and unpredictable. The wolf spoke little English, not past the basics at least, but still had a-sometimes callously-relaxed demeanor. From his expressive body language it was easy to tell that he was comfortable in any situation, even when others weren't.

Finnick tipped the bottle up in recognition. Adelfo smiled fully, then whipped round to listen to the figure next to him.

Maria, sister-stroke-parent of Adelfo, sat next to her brother. Her coat was the same murky brown colour as her sibling. She wore a zipped-up green bomber jacket –her favourite- and faded black jeans below that. It was fashionable, she _was_ Italian after all, but it was slightly cheaper and well-worn than some of the other types she'd probably like to buy. Her ears were nestled under a loose grey beanie that only added to her fashionable art-student-type look.

She leant in over folded arms on the table, voice and expression the same tired smugness it always was. Her ears were pricked up, but the rest of her face didn't look nearly as attentive; her slight smirk that covered her snout was overlaid with lines that traced all the way back from her eyes, pupils themselves half covered by heavy eyelids. She had that casual lazy look that reminded Finnick of someone. He pushed that thought out of his head quickly.

Gena still rifled with the cards. Adelfo swung his head to Maria and asked her something in Italian, the sentence extremely quick just as the language was. She nodded slowly, still maintaining a knowing smile, and turned to Finnick.

"Hi fennec," She said, smirking. "Adelfo's asked whether you will play soon or not," she said.

Maria's English was near-perfect, but her accent was still there. It linked the words into a tired drawl.

Finnick shrugged.

"Later," he replied. Maria turned to translate to Adelfo as Finnick turned on his chair to face the bar once more. He heard the siblings converse in Italian, fast expressive tones from Adelfo and gentler, more tired ones from Maria.

"Well," Leo said as Finnick looked up to him, "what's up with you then? What's been happening with Finnick?"

Though there was no way he'd admit it and no way it could be read from his expression, the fennec fox was tempted to say a lot of things. Say anything. Right there and then, he could've told Leo all that was on his mind and then some. All the little things, like the question, that tiger cub who penned his van, his money situation and his downright terrible day. He could've told him about the meeting.

He could've. He didn't.

The fox moved his right paw up to rub under his eye for a second -still tightly clutching the bottle in his left- then let it fall back down again and breathed out steadily.

"Nothin' much," he replied in an exhale.

Leo chuckled for a brief moment, then busied himself with bar work. He bent down and started rifling through bottles under the bar.

"Not in a talking mood? That's good. I got shit on my mind I want to express." Leo clinked two empty bottles together as he placed them up on the bar. "I got two words for you," he said as he stood up and levelled his gaze at Finnick. "Night. Howler." The two held the stare for a few moments.

Finnick raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but only as much as his tiredness would permit.

"Yeah!" Leo said, throwing up a paw in annoyance. "Lord gimme me strength, Fin. I had some fuckin' problems with that." Leo had his usual conversational tone, with exasperated laughter and chuckles mixed in, but Finnick could sense something else. Some genuine annoyance was rising through. "It's not all the stuff with it. I mean the actual large-scale problems; assistant mayor, Lionheart scandal and all that. That was a pain for the city, not for me."

"A pain for all of us." Maria had broken conversation with Adelfo for a moment to listen and put her sleepy comment in. Adelfo caught her attention again with a sentence that sounded like a question, and she turned to respond.

"Yeah, that was and still is bad." Leo bent back down again to sort through the bottles as he spoke. "It's a good thing that the moose was ok. If he'd died, _shit_ , this would've been ten times worse." Leo came back up with two more empty bottles and placed them on the surface. Finnick took a tiny sip of his beer, savouring the biting taste in his mouth. He looked up to the Lion, who had now furrowed his brow and was staring at the bar. "And I mean _damn_ , seeing that polar bear -wassis' name? Charlie or somethin'?- go feral on the news. Scary stuff, damn scary. Had me praying longer than usual." Leo had lowered his voice, turned it more serious. That was understandable. Even Finnick felt uncomfortable at the memory of watching Charlie going feral on one of the display TVs outside an electric store. The fennec grimaced and scratched the back of his ear.

"Yeah..." Finnick mumbled in agreement.

"Yeah, right? Damn good fear tactic if I ever saw it. I mean, Zahid wouldn't stop calling me. Wouldn't stop worrying. I remember the faces of everybody here as they watched too. Bar went real quiet, only a few weren't looking. Now _everyone_ , and I mean _everyone_ was grim-faced. People just couldn't believe it. Pretty much all of them asked for a round or two after the story finished." Leo breathed out slowly, then paused to reach under the bar and take another empty bottle and place it on the surface. "Couldn't imagine what it would've been like watching it if you were… you know." Almost involuntarily, Finnick flicked his gaze to Gena, who still had her eyes on the cards but was no longer shuffling them. She put them down quietly and looked up. Maria and Adelfo had stopped talking and the bar was silent.

"For most prey, it was terrifying." Gena's voice was soft. It wasn't incredibly high pitched or airy but had a silkiness to it that kept everyone listening. She never hesitated or tripped on a word. "For me, it was just worrying." She put her paws together and placed her elbows on the table. Her face was flat and serious. "Anybody with any extended knowledge of plants or farming knew about the Night Howlers already. Common knowledge. I told everyone that came in my store about them, about their effects, but, well _obviously_ ," she said, rolling her eyes, "they wouldn't have any of it. Some denied it, told me I was betraying my own kind. Some wanted to believe me, I could see it, but then they were just too wrapped up in fear to agree with it. It was a real shame, really it was. All it took was for that brave bunny to show them evidence."

"Nobody believed you?" Maria asked.

Gena paused in thought for a few moments. Everybody was listening. Leo kept moving behind the bar, sorting through the bottles and cleaning the surface, but he flicked his gaze to the doe whenever he could. Maria was focused in intently. Adelfo kept quiet but was obviously confused as to what was going on. Finnick stared into his drink, but the florist had his full attention.

"Just one," she said tentatively. "Cheetah. I forget his name. I think he'd come in to buy his mother some flowers for her birthday. But I saw him sticking to the edges of the shop. He looked uncomfortable as if he shouldn't have been there, or as if he thought I didn't want him there." Finnick took another tiny sip of his beer as Gena continued. "But after a couple of others had left and he was the last in the shop, he came up to the counter. He had a really deep voice, like Finnick."

"You sure about that?" Leo said, stacking up empty glasses. "I've never heard a deeper voice, even from some of my Rhino friends." The lion ended the sentence in a chuckle. Finnick kept his eyes on his beer but had a slight smirk on as he stared at the rising bubbles.

Gena chuckled quietly. "Yes, well. Anyway, he had a deep voice, that was one of the things I remember. But he handed over a really small cluster of roses, barely even five dollars. I always try to make conversation, but I guess I really surprised him when I dove straight into the Night Howler crisis."

"What did you say?" Maria asked. Adelfo kept touching her arm or trying to get her attention like a young child, undoubtedly wanting a translation for what was happening, but Maria kept shushing him.

"Well, I just asked him how he felt about it."

"What did he say?" Finnick asked, still staring at his bottle.

"He was surprised like I said. Didn't really know what to say at first, so I spoke for him for a while." She paused to collect her thoughts, briefly cutting the cards into two piles then stacking them together again. The bar was still silent. "I told him about how I felt about it, and then I told him about the plant. How I studied it in high school."

"And his reaction?" Maria said.

"He was really shocked. He took me very seriously. Kept asking me about what the plant did, about how it could fit in. Back then I clearly didn't know that a gun was being used to deliver the serum or whatever it was, but I told him that the animals still showed all the symptoms. You know, there are recorded incidents of this plant being eaten by an idiot or young child or whatever, then them being directly involved in violence later on. Believe me, I looked it up. There was even one case with a _bunny_ going crazy." Leo had finished stacking up glasses and leant on his bar with two paws. His eyes were transfixed on the doe as she spoke. Even Finnick had started watching. "So I told him about that, and he just looked stunned. We must have talked for a half-hour at least. I told him how I thought it was far too convenient that only predators, even those with no prior history of violence, were the only ones going feral. I mean, one of them was a father for god's sake." She paused again, brow furrowed, deep hazel eyes staring at the pack of cards.

"Then he said his peace and left. Paid for his roses, turned and said: 'I should pay you for that, too.'"

Leo looked puzzled. "Meaning?" he asked.

"Well, meaning he believed me, believed what I said. I smiled, and told him to have a nice day." She picked up the cards again.

Leo grinned. "Well, don't say ' _I told you so_ '."

Gena shrugged. "I'm just glad it's over."

Everybody fell silent, brooding over what had just been said. Maria finally relented to Adelfo's protests and began the long process of explaining what had just happened in their native toungue. Gena returned to shuffling, Leo kept clearing up behind the bar, and Finnick took another sip of his beer. The lion had stacked about seven or eight bottles in a row now and had returned to idly cleaning the wooden surface, even though it already shone.

The silence of the room was interrupted after a few moments by a door that swung open. It was located just a few steps away from the bar and behind the poker table. Cold air from the back alleyway rushed in from an outside world that was now shrouded in darkness, save the artificial yellow glow of street lights. Rhys stepped through.

The hyena was dressed in exactly the same white buttoned-down shirt and belted black slacks as Leo. Though it was sized down to fit his smaller stature that was closer to five feet, rather than Leo's towering six foot six. He had the typical orange and black dotted short fur coat as most of his species did, with the same rounded ears and toothy canine grin. He had a half-finished cigarette in his mouth, an empty beer crate under his left arm and his phone in his right paw. Upon entering the room, he looked up from the screen and stared at the table.

" _Jeez_ , you lot look upset. Who died? " he said.

Rhys was British. If you didn't get that from the accent, you got it from the sarcasm. If you didn't get that from the sarcasm, you got it from all the strange words and expressions he used. It wasn't the traditionally posh accent that everyone expected it to be; it was rough, filled with slang. Finnick remembered him saying he was told he spoke like a 'roadie' back home, whatever the hell that meant.

Leo looked up at the hyena and saw the cigarette still dangling out of his toothy smile. Smoke curled up to the ceiling.

The lion breathed out through his nose in annoyance. "Put it out," he commanded in his massive voice.

"What?" Rhys looked at him with a dumb expression.

Leo just glared for a few moments. The two held the stare, then Rhys quickly buckled and huffed an annoyed sigh. He kicked the door open slightly and chucked the cigarette through the gap before it closed again.

"You got the order, right?" Leo asked. He spoke to the hyena like a parent would speak to their teenage child: always with a slight tone of doubt in his voice.

"Course. Twat paid way, way less than he was supposed to," Rhys said through joking smile.

"The 'Twat' that paid is a business associate," Leo replied dubiously.

"But he's still a 'twat'." Rhys pulled a face. "Why'd you lot say it so weird anyway? It's tw- _at_. There's an 'a' there for a reason."

Leo walked over and took the case from the hyena. "Shut up and play some cards, Rhys. You've done your share tonight," he grumbled as he walked back to the bar.

"Sick. Will do," Rhys replied quickly as he took a look at his phone and clicked a button on top, turning the screen blank. He sat down and pulled his chair in. He nodded to each of the animals in turn. "Yo, guys. You did anythin' since I left?"

Gena still had a polite smile, Maria kept her sleepy smirk on and Adelfo still looked like a bored child.

"Talked a lot," Maria said quietly in her accented English.

"Knew you guys got bored without me." The hyena turned to look at Finnick, who had been watching him with a flat expression since he'd entered. "Nice to see ol' Finny here." He chuckled. "I mean, it's not like I actually _wanted_ to win a round or anything."

Leo smiled at the fennec from across the bar as he began packing in the empty bottles he'd stacked on the surface. "Go on, Fin, we've had enough serious talk for one night. Go play some cards, make some easy money."

Finnick smirked as he looked up at the lion. How funny it was that what he needed more than anything right now was easy money. He gripped his bottle, the liquid inside barely even a centimetre lower than it was to begin with, and hopped off the barstool.

 **...**

"Of course, all I'm sayin' is that I don't want it spoiled or anything."

It was about an hour later. Finnick had lost count of the number of rounds that had been played, but made damn sure he kept count of his money. They'd been using bottle caps that Leo had collected and placed in a plastic bin to bet for nearly all of the rounds, but about ten minutes ago Rhys had started complaining about the game, "Not havin' any real consequences, innit?" so they'd made the switch to actual currency. Finnick had begun to wonder whether that was a good idea.

Because he was losing it.

He'd been winning for the caps, winning loads. That's mostly why Rhys had wanted to switch; Finnick had called his bluff on one of the first rounds, and the hyena had lost most of his bottle caps. But then they'd switched to money.

And then, right then, just as his _fantastic_ luck permitted, he'd started losing.

The entire table seemed relaxed. Rhys, Maria and Gena were engaged in a calm conversation, and Adelfo looked happy in his own non-English speaking world. Leo had gone out to unpack and sign a delivery. He'd left only minutes before, instructing Rhys with that same slightly untrusting tone to serve anyone who walked in.

"No," Maria said slowly, checking her cards before matching one dollar, "I don't as well. But why waste money, eh? Pay to see some _pezzo di merda_ ," she swore in Italian, "when I could've saved by looking it up."

The turn had moved to Adelfo, who seemed transfixed on flicking the edges of his cards with the claw on his index. Maria nudged him and said something quietly to him in Italian. He nodded, then put down a one dollar note of his own in the pot.

"Yeah, but what if it's some bare incredible film?"

Everyone looked at him with a frown. Even Finnick who, up until that point, was focused on his cards.

"What?" Rhys asked innocently, looking at all the puzzled faces.

Gena shook her head. "' _Bare_ '? Why would the film have to have bears in it? I mean they're good actors but-"

Rhys rolled his eyes and tipped his head back before cutting off Gena. " _Ugh,_ " he grunted. "You lot… like I'm speakin' a different language to you, innit?" Rhys chucked in a dollar of his own, matching the bet that Finnick had set.

Maria kept her eyes on her cards, but still smirked at the comment. "For me, _si_ ," she quipped.

"Well yeah, but I'm talkin' to the ZTP crowd. Look, _'bare'_." He made air-quotes with two fingers. "It just means a lot. Like, 'Oh, there's _bare_ stacks of money on the table here that I'll win.' That's what we used it for back home."

The turn now passed to Gena, who carefully placed another dollar in the pot. She then, being the dealer, set out another card face up in the centre to make four. Everybody quietened as they flicked their eyes to their cards briefly, then Rhys began the conversation again as the round of betting started.

"But what were we on?" He frowned in thought, then clicked his fingers in realisation. "Ah! Films. Yeah, no like I said I can't be arsed to read reviews and that, ruins it. Cus' if I find some like amazing film, then I can't claim that I truly _found_ it if I read sommin' about it before I go."

Finnick was the first blind, so he put down the bet. Two dollars. He looked at his pile. Seventeen dollars left. He grimaced slightly at the sight. He could make this work. He'd have to.

Nobody else bothered to pick up after Rhys finished because most of them were too focused. The turn moved to Maria, who simply matched the bet.

Rhys, as usual, picked up the line of thought by himself. "But there's been a big endorsement thing at my cinema." He put a paw on his money, hesitated, then threw in five dollars to raise the bet. "Finnick, you know where it is?"

The fennec looked up from his cards. "Maybe. Street?"

"23rd West Caracal."

Finnick paused for a moment. "... you'd keep Commodore on your left and drive direct to Troop Street station, but you don't cross." He looked directly at Rhys as he spoke, who started to smile in appreciation. "Then left when you get a block away from the river, one block down past that shut-down arcade, then stop when you see the cinema." He looked back down to his cards.

Everyone at the table, except Adelfo -who couldn't look more confused if he tried- smiled at the fennec's recital. They all knew by now how the big-eared fox had memorised nearly all the streets in downtown, but it was still impressive to hear it for themselves.

Rhys chuckled. "Who needs GPS, hey? Just have you ride shotgun and boom, problem solved. Anyway-" Rhys was cut off by the sound of the front door swinging open.

A jackal had stepped into the bar, and made his way to the counter. His fur was that kind of murky yellow that faded into a grey and white pattern along his back. He was wearing slate jeans and a strange kind of suit-jacket-hoodie combo that Finnick had seen in one of those expensive brand shops filled with glass and mirrors. White headphones, the kind that made everybody look like CZI agents-at least to Finnick-, rested down his shirt like a necklace. With the initial surprise gone, everybody but Rhys looked to their cards once more. The hyena threw down his hand and stood up.

"Be back in a bit, don't miss me too much."

"We won't." Maria snarked. The hyena plodded off to the bar. He nodded at the jackal as he walked round behind the counter.

"You alright mate." Rhys said.

"Yeah." The jackal replied quickly. His voice had an average accent, but was slightly clipped. Nervous, almost. "Waiting for a group…" he carried on, but Finnick quickly tuned out and focused his attention back to the table. He caught glimpses in his periphery of them talking, and of Rhys pouring out some drinks, but nothing that warranted any more attention.

Gena put her cards down, then stared curiously at Maria from across the table. "Mar?"

Maria looked up. "Hm?"

Gena hesitated, then chose her words carefully as she continued. "Has… _he_ moved out yet or...?"

"Oh," Maria looked down at her cards. "Yeah. Took the last few pieces of his stuff with him yesterday."

Gena paused. "Smoothly?"

"Sorry?"

"I mean, did it, like, go well?"

Maria looked down at her cards again, this time for a little longer. Adelfo was watching carefully, and he asked her something in mumbled tones. Maria dismissed it with a wave then turned back to Gena.

"Considering the circumstances, _si_." Maria breathed. "He only wanted a few more things, and was civil about it. Adelfo didn't get in his way like he did a couple times before either."

Gena nodded, then looked down at her cards. She hesitated, and looked like she was about to say something, but before she could Rhys strolled back over and landed himself back in his seat with a grin.

"S'cuse me!" he exclaimed. " _Anyway_ , yeah. Big endorsement thing at my cinema. They're adding some _bare,"_ he drew out the word, causing both Maria and Gena to roll their eyes, "…new screen. Very fancy, 3D. I heard it's got like rocket boosters on it, and it takes off out through the roof when the film gets going."

"Oh yeah?" Gena asked sarcastically.

" _Jokes_ ," he replied, throwing in more nonsensical hometown slang, "probably not. This thing's being paid for by a single investor, though. Independent guy, a business mammal whose name I forget. A-something. But anyway, an independent investment?" He whistled appreciably. "Got to be makin' some real dough for that."

The turn moved to Gena, who took one look at her cards, then one look at the pot, and threw her hand into the centre.

"I fold," she said, exhaling tiredly as she did so. Finnick wasn't the only one having tough luck.

Rhys gave her a toothy grin. "I wasn't bluffing, Jee. I promise," he said, the kind of tone in his voice that suggested the exact opposite.

Gena stared at her cards in the centre as she spoke. "You're always bluffing, Rhys. That's why you're so bad at this game."

Maria laughed, even Finnick permitted a smirk. Rhys just smiled nonchalantly and shrugged.

"I'm not the one who folded."

"Knowing you," Maria replied, "that's not a good thing."

Finnick silently matched the bet. Maria did too. The turn came to Adelfo, who stared at his cards for a long while before exploding and throwing them down in the centre.

" _Carte merda_!" he shouted.

The table looked at Maria. She shrugged. "You don't need an Italian handbook to guess that he's folded."

Rhys nodded to Gena. "Right, dealer, do the honours."

The doe pulled out the final card and put it face-up in the centre. All eyes and minds were focused on the game now. Even Rhys had shut up.

Finnick prided himself on having the best poker face on the table. He made sure to maintain it as he pushed all his money into the centre.

"All in."

Everyone at the table went silent. Maria's eyebrows went up so high they nearly manage to hide underneath the rim of her beanie.

" _Dolce maria..."_ She hissed in exasperation. The wolf looked at her cards once more, then decided it wasn't worth it. She threw them into the centre. The focus of the silent bar shifted to Rhys.

Finnick bored into the hyena. He looked nervous, but was doing his absolute best to hide it; his right paw kept reaching for the back of his neck to scratch, and his mouth was curved into a smile that feigned casualness but was unconvincing, to say the least. His pupils, wide and bright, kept flicking from his cards to his money, and from his money to Finnick. The fennec, meanwhile, had a face set in granite.

After a few more moments, the hyena shook his head and seemed to make up his mind.

"Ah, fuck it."

Rhys moved all of his remaining money into the pot. Adelfo was almost comical in his clear surprise and excitement, and Maria still managed to look just as shocked, even with her tired eyes. Gena, however, had a subtle smirk as she spoke.

"It's a showdown then," the florist said.

" _Showdown…"_ Adelfo repeated in a stage whisper, heavy accent unable to hide his near-childlike anticipation.

Finnick didn't see him, though; he was too busy locking eyes with Rhys from across the bar. The hyena looked much more settled now, genuinely settled. He didn't itch his neck or flick his eyes about. He kept them on Finnick, and he kept his mouth set in an assured smirk. For some reason, that set off a few alarm bells in Finnick's head.

"Finnick goes first."

The fennec looked at the centre. Among some cash and a few drinks, five cards rested on the table, face up. There were two useless cards, an eight of hearts and a three of diamonds, which he couldn't use. But beyond that was his hand; a ten, jack and queen, all in spades. He had an eight and a nine. Both in spades. It was the best hand he'd had all night, and he was damn sure he wouldn't waste it.

Finnick flipped his cards over. Gena collected them, stared for a few seconds, then pulled the rest out to make his best hand.

"Straight flush," she said.

Adelfo, unable to contain his excitement, clapped and laughed loudly. Maria kept her quiet smirk but flicked her eyes to Rhys.

"If you were bluffing-" she began.

"I'm not," he said quietly. The alarm in Finnick got louder.

Gena looked over to the hyena. "Cards?"

Rhys flipped his cards over. As it turned out, the hyena wasn't bluffing. The only thing that could've beaten Finnick's hand was what Rhys had. He knew it was a possibility, but it was a slim one. Very slim.

The hyena, for once, had gotten extremely lucky.

Gena built the hand, taking Rhys' King of Spades and Ace of spades.

"Royal flush. Rhys takes the pot," she said.

Without his intervention or knowing, Finnick's eyes had widened. His entire body was frozen, face stuck on an unbelieving stare into the centre of the table as Rhys raked in the sixty dollars or so. The amber pupils were stuck in the centre. Everyone began to turn, staring at the fennec. Rhys, remarkably, didn't even celebrate. It was his biggest play of the night, maybe even the year, and the only trace of emotion he had on his face was slight guilt.

Gena looked around, saw all the awkward expressions from Maria and Adelfo, saw Rhys reserved celebration and saw Finnick's disbelief.

"Maybe that's enough poker for the night," she said.

Everyone got up in quick agreement. Maria and Adelfo threw their cards into the centre and skulked off as quick as possible. Rhys kept biting his tongue in deliberation, throwing in his cards too for Gena to collect and stack up. Finnick had wiped the amazement from his face, now settling on rubbing his eyes and chucking his cards into the centre. Suddenly, Rhys rose from his table.

"Guys, fuck this. My mistake, alright. Stupid idea to suggest money, people always get angry over this shit," he said tiredly.

Finnick hopped down from his seat with his drink and made for the bar. The other three stood and watched.

"Finnick mate, take the money back."

Finnick froze and stared at Rhys. He held his gaze for a few seconds.

"Nah," he said. "You won it, you take it. Rules are rules."

Rhys rounded the table and closed on Finnick. He stopped a little short of a meter away, a few feet taller than the fennec fox

"Screw that. I made a mistake. I don't need the money."

Finnick shot him a glare. "What," he snapped, "and I do?"

The others were still watching. Adelfo looked confused but still awkward, Maria had the grimace of someone unable to turn their head away from an accident and Gena just looked upset.

Rhys shook his head quickly. "That's not what I meant, ok? Look, Fin, what's money got to do with it anyway? I just won that's all."

He'd heard it again.

' _What's money got to do with it?_ '

It followed him, followed him everywhere like a black cloud. Always hanging over his head, always tugging at his thoughts. And, by some twisted chance, he'd heard it again. Everything came flooding back to Finnick, all the details of the conversation, the golden sunset in the background, and the way the light had framed him –highlighting all the stray bits of fur- as he spoke. But, most of all, he remembered the unaware, _completely_ oblivious expression as he asked it. Finnick paused, brow as deep as it could be, to push it all out of his mind before he spoke.

"What do you mean with that damn question?" Finnick forced his voice to sound mildly exasperated, confused even. It was better than the alternative he reallyfelt: pure rage.

Rhys took in a sharp breath and began to answer, but Finnick stepped in over him.

"Money's got _everythin'_ to do with it." He spun on his feet and hopped back up on a barstool. Rhys stood very still. It was his turn to look upset. "You won it, 'aight? I don't need no charity. You won it, you take it. Period."

The words hung in the air for a while. The jackal at the bar head kept his headphones in and attention fixed on his phone, but even he stole the odd glance every now and , though, the whole atmosphere had changed. What once felt like a casual game had now turned into something worse, and from the look on Rhys' face, it was clear that he felt as if he was the source of it. Gena, as ever, came in to mediate.

"We all agreed on cash, Rhys. It wasn't forced. Finnick could've stepped out at any time, like the rest of us. Don't let this ruin the night, ok? C'mon; Leo'll be back soon. Let's play some blackjack."

Maria and Adelfo gladly stepped back in, interested in trying to fix the mood back to what it was a few minutes before. Rhys stayed still a little longer, then shook his head.

"Goin' for a smoke. I'll be there in a second." He pulled his phone out of his slacks and began to tap away on it as he backed out of the door and into the cold alleyway.

Finnick took another sip of his drink. It wasn't even halfway gone.

…

The bar was dark now.

Rhys had left. He'd come back in to play a few card games, all the while a little quieter and reserved than he usually would be. Finnick could see that the entire time Gena and Maria were on the cusp of telling him to snap out of it, on the cusp of telling him to move on and care about it as little as Finnick did. There were a few moments where he thought about telling him himself. But he didn't, and neither did Maria or Gena, and he left. Leo had come back about a half-hour before, carrying cases of new beer and kegs. Rhys had helped, then he'd left.

Finnick sat at the bar. He rested his snout on his left paw, his elbows resting on the bar surface. His right arm extended out to his beer, now almost empty, and he clicked his claws against the bottle idly.

That same exhaustion he felt while finding the lot was back.

While that time it strapped him down to his driver's seat, this time the fatigue glued his body to the barstool. Every blink, every head movement and every sip of his beer seemed to play out in slow motion. His eyelids were impossibly heavy, and his eyes themselves stung like they were rubbed full of salt.

"Hey, Fin?" a voice muttered.

Leo's undertones seemed to shake Finnick out his trance. He realised he'd been half-sleeping.

Much of the bar was tidied up now. Every chair and stool had been placed onto tables or surfaces save Finnick's seat, the lone jackal and the game table.

"Gena left." Leo had lowered his voice. "She said bye, but I don't know if you heard or not."

Finnick shook his head and blinked hard. He breathed out slowly once he'd finished.

"Nah," he breathed, "I didn't." There was a brief moment of silence between the two. Finnick's senses slowly arrived back to him, and with them came a sound. A song. He tuned his ears to it. "What you playin' now, Leo?" he mumbled. It was low a low strung bass, mixed in with some airy vocals. The noise sounded murky and muffled, but still echoed about the room.

The lion smiled. "'Spirit in the Sky _'_. I thought we needed somethin' other than silence for a while."

Finnick nodded appreciatively.

"You like this one?" Leo asked.

"I like the bass line," Finnick replied.

A few more moments of silence passed. Finnick slowly turned to look at the poker table. Only Maria and Adelfo were left. They were playing a two-player game, probably something like Speed. Maria still wore her green bomber jacket and black beanie, but Adelfo had changed. He switched out his jeans for scruffy-looking sweatpants and had changed the bright red shirt into a loose, stained white T-shirt. It was his sleepwear; being only a few floors down from the bar, he must've changed to relax before sleep.

If they she didn't before, Maria looked like Adelfo's mother now more than ever.

Finnick turned back to look at his drink.

Leo sighed regretfully and furrowed his brow in thought. "Fin," he began, leaning in and lowering his voice, "you need to talk to me about anything? Rhys told me about what happened. He feels guilty, Fin. I mean, he won't give a shit tomorrow," Leo half-chuckled, "that's Rhys really."

Finnick looked up. "I'm fine." He took a sip from his drink.

Leo paused. "Well, we've all," he said slowly, clearly choosing his words carefully, "all been through shit financially. Maria did when she first got here." He gestured over to an animated wolf in her card game. "Rhys had a foot in the social security door before he came here. Gena had her shop trashed a few years back; you remember her telling us that?"

Finnick nodded, avoiding the lion's gaze.

"I mean, I can't even pay for this tab."

Both Finnick and Leo frowned at each other. Finnick quickly realised the voice had come from the jackal sitting a few seats right of him. It seemed as if he had made his comment, then buried his head back in his arms. He looked like he was trying to sleep, and trying to build a bed of glass with all the empty bottles around him. The animal had been quiet since he had arrived. Finnick had quickly forgotten he was there, and whenever he did look over he'd only been drinking a few at a time. Now though, he looked like he was on a mission.

Leo rounded on him quickly. "That better be a joke buddy." There was a sharp edge to his voice. It was steps away from being a dangerous edge.

The jackal let out an uneven, drunk laugh with his head still buried in his arms.

Leo pulled away a few of the glasses that surrounded him as he shot the jackal a disapproving stare. "Yeah, see if you laugh like that when you try to leave without paying."

The drunk threw up a lazy paw in response then let it flop back down again, still keeping his head buried in his arms.

Leo shook his head dismissively and turned back to Finnick. The fennec began for him.

"I manage on my own."

"Not always," Leo began slowly. "I remember a fox who -"

" _On my own._ " Finnick cut across. If the edge to Leo's voice was dangerous, Finnick's was a live mine field.

Leo hesitated. He opened his mouth, then quickly closed it again and focused on clearing up the bar. It carried on like that for a while.

Leo kept wiping away. The drunk looked like he'd fallen asleep, and Maria and Adelfo looked as if they were in their last round. Maria kept slipping in and out of sleep, and Adelfo was yawning excessively, constantly showing his bright, sharp teeth. _Spirit in the Sky_ had stopped too, with the track ticking on to a slow country-rock song Finnick had never heard, nor cared to. The Italians broke the silence.

Maria got up, drew in the cards and turned to Leo. "We," she said slowly, "are going up."

Leo looked up at the quiet voice. "Yeah, see you tomorrow, guys."

"When's the meeting with the landlord?" Maria asked.

"Seven."

"Right." She yawned, as Adelfo stretched out his arms behind her. "Well, serve him something strong. He's always better when he's drinking."

Leo smiled and nodded. "On the house," he said.

" _Grazie._ " Maria responded. She turned her gaze to Finnick. "Night, Fin."

Finnick nodded back in response.

Maria began to walk out, moving towards the door that led to the alleyway and the external stairs that led to their apartment above the bar. She pushed the door open and held it for Adelfo, who followed her to it. Maria then walked out of sight. Adelfo leant his head back through it to give a final goodbye.

" _Ciao ragazzi, Ciao Fin, Ciao Leo."_ He paused, throwing a dubious look at the jackal. " _Ciao… ubriaco_." Then he was gone.

Finnick put his eyes back on his drink. He was very, very still and very quiet. The entire bar was now. Only the music -which was somehow even less than white noise at this point- and the gentle rustling of the cloth as Leo finished wiping down the surface were left.

"Let me tell you something, Fin," Leo began. Finnick was mutely surprised the lion bothered. Even for Leo, it was a stretch to try to carry on. "Nine days ago a brick flew through this window." He gestured at the clouded window with the bar's name on it.

Finnick looked up, looked slowly at the window, then looked at Leo. "Yeah, Jee mentioned it."

"She tell you all of it?"

Finnick shook his head.

"Yeah," the lion exclaimed, "well, it was late Tuesday. Not exactly peak hours, I mean it was just me and Rhys. Others weren't here." He paused to collect his thoughts. "It was crazy; one moment," he gestured his paws out over the bar as if to pick up an invisible box, "it's calm and quiet. Rhys is asleep at a booth. Some couple in the corner are having a meal, and I'm here just thinking about payments. Then the next," he moved his huge paws, still holding the imaginary box, towards the right, "chaos. Brick flies in, girl screams. Rhys wakes up and falls out the booth, and I start cursing so much my ma would've murdered me if she'd heard. Rhys then sprints out to chase the thrower, and the couple is just frozen solid in their booth. I slowly make a move over to about the second bar stool along from you. Right there." He gestured, and Finnick looked at the wooden stool. He heard Leo breathe out, slowly.

Finnick then flicked his amber eyes to the window. It was near-black outside. The light from the bar reached out along the sidewalk, briefly catching the odd animal or two as they strolled by it, but cut off at the road. Past that, it was a few lit windows and suggestions of life. But it was mostly dark; mostly still.

"It was breezy that day," Leo said. "Small breeze, y'know? I could tell because I heard it sweep in the bar through the broken window. There was no music on, the couple in the corner were stunned into silence, and it was a strangely empty street. So I heard it first, little gusts coming in." The drunk shuffled slightly, head still placed on the bar, but was then still.

This was a strange day, Finnick thought. It was the latest he'd ever been in the bar, but stranger than that, it was the softest he'd ever hear Leo speak in his life.

"Then I saw it," Leo carried on. "I saw all the glass about the place shift slightly. They covered everything close to the window; bar, chairs, tables, you name it. But they got moved by the wind. They made the softest sounds when they did. Like, those wind chimes, you know them? Made me think of…" He trailed off, deep in thought. Finnick sat still. "Home. That's it. That's what I thought of. Mom collected them. Still does. But she used to hang them up everywhere. The sound always made me feel alright. Made me feel safe and all that stuff." He chuckled, and Finnick got drawn back into the dark bar after almost seeing the bright, class-covered surroundings Leo described. He turned back to the Lion.

"I know I should've thought about the mess. I mean, god help me, I eventually did. But in that weird frantic... time. I just thought of the sound of wind chimes. Just thought of home." He paused and shuffled awkwardly, uncharacteristically. "Sorry, Fin, no need for poetry. Bit too serious for-"

Finnick shook his head and cut in. "Nah, it's all good," he said respectfully. "Thanks for tellin' me."

Leo laughed. "Didn't even tell it like that to Zahid, my _partner_. I mean damn."

Finnick smiled. A pause filled the gap. It felt like absolute silence; the smallest movements by anyone rung out like a snare. That's why Finnick's ears flicked round after he heard the jackal next to him move.

" _'Partner'_?" he said it as if the word tasted horrible in his mouth.

For the first time since his arrival, the drunk had stirred. He'd raised his head slowly, then levelled a narrow glare at Leo. Upon closer inspection, the jackal-strangely enough-didn't look like a regular; well cut and cleaned fur, no stench -apart from his drink, of course- and no particular indicator that he frequented getting drop-down drunk like he was now. But that expression, that ugly, scrunched up, disgusted expression etched along his snout and eyes made him look like your next average binge-drinking asshole.

Leo rolled his eyes and looked at Finnick. " _Here we go_ ," he mumbled jokingly. Finnick didn't match the lion's tone. His brow was deep, and his tired eyes shot daggers at the jackal.

" _Partner_? You joking? Tellin' me this entire time a fuckin' _fairy_ is running _Mane Bar_."

Leo didn't seem bothered. Not even in the slightest. "Wow," he said in a bored exhale. "You really sleuthed that one out, huh?"

"Fuck off, " the jackal spat. He was upright, sneering, and had his paws out wide on the bar, as if about to hop over. Finnick didn't fare his chances if he did. " I didn't know you were a fairy. If I did I would've left before the first fuckin' drink. _Asshole_."

Leo let out a short laugh. It didn't even sound slightly forced. "Ok," he said, facing the drunk, "but you didn't, and I gave you a few drinks. _And_ you've got a tab. _And_ you _will_ pay for them." His voice was quiet and calm.

Finnick had kept his glare on the jackal, face frozen on a deep frown, eyelids half closed. That combined with the upturned grimace on his mouth painted a look of pure disgust, one that any sober mammal might think twice before speaking too. That's why the drunk made another mistake by turning to Finnick and blurting out the first thing he thought.

"Fuck are you looking at, shorty?"

The jackal's rage seemed to boil over. He extended his claws and rose quickly, digging into the wood of the bar with one paw as he did so. Growling at Finnick, the jackal bared his teeth as he spoke. "Run along back to recess before I-"

He didn't get to finish his insult, because before he could Leo had leant over the bar with a strangely resigned expression on his face and picked him up by the collar with a quick yank of his arm.

Some animals forget their size. Leo didn't. The jackal did.

He was lifted nearly a foot off the ground and brought eye-level with the Lion. The drunk seemed to pull back, then freeze. It was clear from the wide eyes on his face that he was not anticipating Leo's sheer strength and his calmness as he used it.

The Lion shot daggers at him, and Finnick now smirked at the jackal's fear.

"Here are three things that will now happen," Leo began calmly. The edge was back, razor sharp. The lion used that quiet yet terrifying tone that only a few animals possessed.

"First, you'll pay your tab. Forty dollars. Twenty extra for this little stunt." He gestured at the claw-marks on the bar.

The jackal seemed to have recovered from his initial shock but still was in no mood to start struggling or thrashing. Finnick would wager that it was the tone of voice Leo was using that did that.

"Second, you'll apologise to my friend."

Leo dropped the jackal, who immediately straightened and sneered at Leo, clearly trying to recover whatever dignity he had left.

"Third," he said, leaning in slowly. "You'll walk out the door and sober up before you forever regret the time you tried to act tough in _my_ bar."

The jackal froze. It seemed he was contending with fleeing, fighting, or actually using his brain and doing what Leo said. Finnick saw this and deepened his scowl.

"Well?" The fennec spat, "you gonna move or what?"

The jackal relented, taking out a black wallet and dumping sixty dollars on the bar. He took one look at Finnick, mumbled, 'Yeah, sorry,' with an expression that said the exact opposite, then strode out quickly into the dark.

Silence returned.

Cars passed, the clock moved. There was no more music, no more sound. Finnick and Leo watched to door, then Finnick turned back to his drink first. Leo shook his head and threw his cloth down on the wooden surface. After pulling the scrunched-up sixty dollars off the bar and into his pocket, he moved round the side, swiftly flipping up the hatch to exit the bar, then setting it back down again before standing by the stool where the jackal once sat. He looked at the claw marks. They were deep.

Just like Leo's frown.

He sat down slowly on the stool and rubbed a paw along the marks. When he spoke, he was quiet. A kind of bitter disappointment dripped in his words.

"An' I spent so much time cleaning this exact spot..."

The lion sat there for a while. Finnick didn't know how much time passed between them, a few seconds; a few minutes? He had no idea. Neither did Leo, apparently. All that drifted in between was soft silence and the occasional interruption of a car whooshing by the window.

Leo then stood up and put the stool he was sitting on legs-up on the counter. Finnick hopped off his own stool with his drink. Leo then took the seat and did the same, turning it over and putting it legs-up like the rest of the chairs in the bar now. He looked down at Finnick, then looked at his beer.

"That's on the house," he said as he reached down to take the bottle. The fennec handed it to him. Leo placed it on the counter then turned round and walked to the door. He opened it and held it for Finnick to follow.

After a few moments, Finnick walked out. He scratched his brow as he passed by the lion."I'll pay for it anyway, dumbass," he mumbled as he walked past Leo and out into the dark.

The lion laughed, then strode out and locked the door behind him.

The air had cooled outside, and the breeze had picked up. He could smell it, that strange scent of the night that seemed more pure, more clean. Yellow street lights bathed the road just as darkness now bathed Commodore Park. Cars passed by, but they were few and far between. The wind picked up every now and again, rustling leaves in the trees of the park, making them whisper in strange and eerie tones. As Leo looked out thoughtfully at the park, Finnick walked slowly over to his van, pulled the grey driver door open, and hopped inside. He slammed it shut behind him.

Finnick stared forward as Leo came over and put his paws on the door. He still had to lean down to look through the open window at Finnick.

"Impressive, this thing," Leo said as he ran his gaze down the side of the van. His mane rustled in the breeze every now and again. "Real blast from the past. Must cost a ton to keep it in ship-shape, right?"

Finnick kept his eyes forward. He had a flat expression that was, as ever, unreadable. "Yeah. Not too bad," he said quietly.

"Well, it's a beauty." He smiled, then looked out across the street, still leaning on the driver door. The breeze picked up. The leaves whispered, bits of trash along the sidewalk danced and Leo's mane rustled slightly. It died down again. Leo looked back at Finnick.

"Stay in the alley. You know where Rhys was walking in and out of? There. I ain't got a delivery until at least twelve, so you got plenty of time." His voice was serious, and his gaze centred.

Finnick kept his eyes forward and shook his head dismissively. "I got somewhere to drive, a place I can-"

"No, Fin," Leo said. "I don't think you do. Stay in the alley, there's no shame in accepting hospitality."

Finnick turned his head to look at the lion, appearing as if he might respond, but he didn't. His face seemed to relax a little as he turned to face forward again. The deep amber eyes betrayed something beyond fatigue.

"Alright," he said slowly, "thanks."

Silence passed by again. So did the breeze.

Finnick waited for more reassurance, more sympathy, or just more talking. He waited for a long and heartfelt monologue. It's not that he didn't appreciate it, he just didn't like the pity, didn't want it. Not from anybody, and especially not from someone he respected. So Finnick waited, or braced himself, rather, for the sympathy to come, but instead Leo said three short words that meant a lot more than anything he could have expected.

"Stay safe, Fin," Leo said.

And with that, he turned and walked off down into the dark street.

Finnick followed him with his eyes; watched him through the windscreen as he made his way down through the night until he turned round an apartment block and out of sight.

He didn't look back once.

* * *

 **Thanks again to my beta, hmweasly.**


	4. Four

**FOUR**

" _I've always liked Fennecs," said Harald Mane._

" _The others? Well, you only need to look at the Rhino tribes as an example. Violent, very violent. It must have been the fourth or so summit. Appeasement was now the only goal. Looking around the hall I could only see disgruntled faces. Everyone thought they were marginalised, their needs ignored, and nobody was satisfied. But that was the sad truth of it, my friend. Nobody was happy. But the Rhinos?"_

 _Mane gave a sort of derisive snort._

" _-they were beyond inoperable. Nothing would do, nothing served their interests, and nothing was to their liking. It was a disaster of a summit down to, in most part, the Rhinos. They sparked In-fighting and days of bickering. Nothing I hadn't seen before, of course -being a founder of this place had its drawbacks, my friend- but, this was so much more intolerable. I can recall how very tiresome it all became."_

 _He couldn't see him. He could only feel him, like a ghost or a spirit. He could only see Leo's bar, with its vast, expansive halls and hundreds upon hundreds of seats and tables all neatly laid out for nobody, all empty._

" _That doesn't matter," said Mane, "Now listen. The only group that was anywhere near helpful was yours, my friend. Your species conceded much was patient and respectful but were never ignored, even though they were small in number. Not like you are, my friend."_

 _All the hundreds of seats were empty. Unwanted and unused. There were no doors, no way out. Mane made an annoyed sound._

" _Look," he began, "You need to listen. This is important. You ignored your partner before when he tried to tell you about me, so I'm here to fill in the gaps. You have me, Harald Mane, sitting here, and you don't even think to ask questions? Millions in this city alone would lose a limb to have five minutes with the likes of me."_

 _Mane sounded like he was getting up. It then sounded as though he had hit the table in an outburst of frustration. There were still no exits. Some of the lights at the opposite end of the bar blinked off. Darkness crept forward, moving so quietly that the silence took on its own form, like a build-up of air pressure. It was then smashed by Mane's booming tones._

" _Listen! You coward! Stop running from everything. You're quick to brandish the bat or your teeth and quicker still to shout and challenge, but what kind of ground do you stand on?!"_

 _More lights went out, and the darkness got ever closer to their booth. Finnick scrambled to get up and leave. Mane hit the table again. The sound was like a shockwave._

" _Here we go!" he boomed. "You have no ground! None!" The last word bounded around the walls for a good few seconds. Mane got quieter, and his voice gained a dangerous edge. "You're looking to escape because you're a coward. But, ask yourself, what will you escape to? You have nothing to call your own except your bitter regret and decrepit 'home'; nothing that can't disappear in less than an instant. And your money? That which you hold so very dear?"_

 _Mane laughed cruelly, then Finnick felt his steps race over to him._

" _Well," a massive paw reached down and seized Finnick's throat. He squeezed tight. Finnick felt himself choking, gasping, clawing for air. When Mane spoke again, it was quiet, sinister and full of disgust. And, what's more, it didn't sound like Mane. It sounded more like the fox who said it first._

" _What's money got to do with it?"_

 **…**

Finnick shot up on his couch.

For a full minute, he had his left paw clutched to his throat, and his right clenched into a first, arm bent at the elbow. His jaw was clenched tight, his frown was sharp, and his eyes were narrowed. All that was there in the van at that moment was the sound of rapid breathing going in and out through Finnick's nostrils. He sat still. His shirt was on, though unbuttoned and creased. His jeans were still on too.

It was a while before he moved again. When he did, he only moved his head, shaking it slowly and dismissively–unbelievingly, almost. He swung his legs round and let them hang over the couch.

He was getting _pissed_ now.

It was clear from his face, his sharpened and contorted expression. He'd reached that point of tired anger, where everything no longer appeared to just be the natural order of things, but rather a series of obstacles placed to push him just to the brink and then, eventually, beyond.

He sat up and busied himself with checking everything in the van. Avoiding the safe, he went around clockwise to each cupboard and appliance, turning them on and off, checking the food stores. Every movement was quick, curt and furious. He punched things on and off, whipped doors open then slammed them shut again once he'd done and handled everything with such indelicacy that if anyone elsewhere to be present, they would surely flinch at his movements. It soon became apparent why nearly every piece of furniture in the van was chipped and bruised in some way.

He pulled open a cupboard with a small pile of clothes inside and grabbed out his favourite khaki shorts, hurled them onto the couch, then threw it shut again. He did all this with a sharpened expression, and a figure so tensed and tight he was a statue when he stood still. He did all this while still shaking his head dismissively, disbelievingly.

Once all that had been done, he hopped back on the couch and looked over at the clock.

The little lines read out a little past four o'clock.

So Finnick slumped back down on his couch. The cold night air that seeped into the van forced him to constantly keep rubbing his arms. He closed his eyes, but never stopped scowling.

'I've always liked Fennecs.'

Sure you did Mane, Finnick thought bitterly. Even though his eyes were closed, his fists were still curled tight.

 _Sure you did_.

…

A few hours later, at about nine-thirty, Finnick stirred. He guessed he'd been 'stirring' for the last half-hour anyway, so had decided that sleep was a no-go and it was time to get moving. He was perched in his driver seat. The khakis were on, as was his favourite bowling shirt, which was now completely buttoned up. The gold-rimmed aviators were on too. He wasn't moving, and from the blank look on his face, it was evident he didn't intend to for at least the next few minutes.

Outside the van, the early day was bright and clear. It wasn't as blisteringly hot as it was yesterday, but the sky was still free of any clouds and the air was still dry and crisp. The morning climate had nearly subsided, giving leave for a midday breeze to roll gently through the streets. Finnick caught glimpses of pedestrians and cars moving quickly behind him in his rear-view mirror. The city, the breeze, and the minutes all passed in tandem for a while.

Finnick's attention was then caught upwards as the door to the exterior metal stairs was pushed open. Maria stepped through and closed the door shut behind her. She still wore jeans, though they were now slate-coloured and ripped at the knees, and still wore her green bomber jacket. The beanie was now off, but the tired expression was unfaltering. She gave a warm smile to Finnick as she made her way down the stairs, then leant into view.

"Hi, Fennec."

Finnick gave a short and polite nod in response.

"Fun game last night, eh?" She smirked. "I joke. It was bad. We celebrate your sparse visits with an awkward game of loose-all-your money."

Finnick thought of shooting her a dangerous look, but her friendly tone disarmed him.

"Ah? What can we do?" She paused and leant on the side of Finnick's van, looking at him steadily. Finnick kept his eyes averted.

"You sleep well?" Maria asked.

Finnick paused before speaking. His paws seemed to tighten on the wheel, but his expression made no sign of change. "Nah."

"That's okay," Maria yawned, "neither did I. Adelfo stayed up talking on the games machine again. Shooting, talking. The shooting game isn't the worst. No, the one where he thinks he is a _calciatore_. The soccer game." She sighed and rubbed her forehead with her paw. " _Bastardo_ is so loud. The paintings on the walls in my room actually shook."

Finnick kept his eyes forward. "Didn't go in an' shut him up?"

She gave a derisive snort. "Oh, I tried. I'll slam the door open and scream at him, but he'll just put his arm around me and jump around like I'm in the stadium with him. I'll tell him to shut up, but he'll just keep shouting _'Goal! Goal! Andiamo! Andiamo sorella!'_ " She mimicked Adelfo's voice, adding a gruff tone and waving one of her arms about in mock celebration. She shrugged. "He does it to annoy me. Always has. In our old home, he used to kick his ball into a goal from only a meter away and run around the house screaming for hours. Only did it because he knew it got to me." She smiled and rolled her eyes. "Ah, well. I did find it funny sometimes." She stood idly by for a few moments, seemingly lost in the memory of their past life she had dug up.

Finnick broke the lull first, reaching down on his right and grasping a crumpled five dollar note in his paw. He came back up again and stretched his small arm out over the window, waving the note for Maria to take.

"Give this to Leo, will ya?" He said. "Need to pay for my drink."

Maria looked up, then her expression seemed to fall. Her sleepy eyes looked sad, and she tsk'd unhappily. "Ah, Fennec. I can't accept this... what with all the money you lost-"

Finnick shook his head then cut in. "Nah," he said, "that was nothin. I can make that back."

Maria sighed, resigned. "Leo can make back the money on your drink too."

Silence drifted by a few seconds. Finnick looked expectantly at Maria through his clouded aviators, eyes and expression unreadable. She reached out and took the bill.

Finnick turned back forward. "Appreciate it."

" _Si, Si…_ " Maria mumbled, pushing the bill into her pocket with an unhappy expression. She yawned and rubbed her eyes. "So, why didn't you sleep well Finnick?" she asked.

Once again, the paws tensed, but only the paws. Finnick didn't look at Maria when he spoke. "… dreams an' shit. Kept me up late."

"Oh yeah? Nightmare?"

Finnick shook his head, then hesitated. "Nah… jus'- it don't matter." He paused again. "It was strange- had… had Harald Mane in it."

Despite herself, Maria laughed. "No way!" She said, grinning. "I'd give anything to talk to Mane for a while." Maria scratched the back of her head, still smiling. "He was one of the founders we studied in history class. You ever study him?"

Finnick didn't share the wolf's humour. He kept his gaze forward. "All the time." He shrugged. "Can't remember any of it now."

"What did he say?"

Finnick hesitated once more. "Nothin' nice."

"Not talk about the other founders? The seven summits? None of that?"

"Nah," Finnick breathed. "Just… lied. It don't matter."

"Oh." Maria took the cue to change the subject. She stepped back from the van and stretched out. "Well," she said, arching her torso backwards. "I won't keep you. Got to see the landlord anyway." She stopped, and yawned. "He's a grade-A stronzo," she swore in Italian, "so I won't keep him either." She looked at him, smiled, and gave a final parting nod.

" _Ciao_ Fin." She said.

Maria turned, pushed open the door, and slipped into the bar.

Finnick caught a glimpse, just for a fleeting moment, like a face passing on a train, of Leo sitting at one of the booths inside the bar, facing away with a thoughtful expression. In that little snapshot through the opened door, that ever-so-small look at the Lion, Finnick almost found it funny how much Leo really did look like Mane himself.

It clicked shut again, and the view of the bar was cut off.

After turning forward again and checking his mirror, the Fennec pushed down his handbrake and pressed down on the gas, pulling out into the day.

…

" _Welcome to Wills-Furgo, formerly known as MacDunald's. I don't want to take your order, but, under my contract, I have to ask you_ _for it. So, what'll it be, motherfucker?"_

Finnick took a moment to check if he'd heard right.

The queue for the drive-thru hadn't been bad. One mammal-carrier up front filled with pigs had taken its time, sure, but –apart from that- there weren't many others waiting. Finnick had gotten lucky; he'd missed the breakfast rush. He'd certainly hit rush-hour trying to get here, though. That had extended the drive, probably, but forty-five minutes wasn't bad; wasn't anything unusual.

So, what the hell was that?

Finnick shot a dubious glance at the speaker. "I didn't know fast-food places employed comedians," he said.

" _New policy. It's called the I-can't-be-fucked-to-do-my-job-anymore trust._ " The voice didn't miss a beat, crackling through the speakers with a quick retort. There was something about it, Finnick thought as he leaned in closer. Something recognisable.

"Yeah?"

" _Yeah, dude. Whole conglomerate is stoked about it_."

Finnick caught movement in his mirror. A sheep in an SUV looked irate at the wheel behind him. He could wait.

He looked back at the mic and leaned in a little more, tuning his ears as finely as he could to the speakers. He considered telling the mammal that he knew his voice, from somewhere, from something. He didn't, but he still kept a suspicious frown on his face as he spoke.

"Cheeseburger and small fires, joker."

" _Want me to throw in a shake? I can throw it in or throw it at you; either way is fine for me._ "

There it was again.

It was a voice from way back in his past. A voice that used to ring out in dinner queues, on lunch tables, and in class.

A horn sounded out behind him. Finnick shot a glare into his rear-view mirror at the SUV, but the sheep paid no heed. He'd never seen someone so desperate to order cheap processed food.

Finnick turned forward and put the van into gear.

"Throw it at me," he said, leaning his arm against the left door frame, "And I'll dig a claw into your eyeball."

There were a few moments of silence during which -for whatever strange reason- Finnick was compelled to wait a few seconds. His large ears trained to the speaker as best he could. The SUV tried to swerve, but there was no room, so just settled on a frustrated press of a horn again

" _Hold up,"_ The voice said. It was now removed of any sarcastic tone. _"Is that you, Finny?"_

Finnick smiled at himself for guessing it right so quickly. No matter what, he _always_ had his memory; always had his damn good ears.

"Damn straight Crisco," he confirmed.

" _Well, shit!"_ Crisco said. _"Might reconsider throwing that shake at you now. Drive around to the window, Finny. It's been too long."_

Finnick smirked and stepped on the gas. The van lurched forward, moving about five meters around to the window. When he stopped at the at it, a much older looking Crisco was beaming at him.

The moose stood tall like he always had, having a good six or so feet over the Fennec (if you discounted the antlers). Under the yellow, branded employee cap were brown eyes that looked a little duller than they used to. But underneath his large round nose was _the_ smirk. It was still as ever-present as it always was, almost stapled to his features as if all the jaw bones were built to only sustain that slight curve of the lips. He'd had a few piercings in his ears and on the bridge of his nose, but, apart from that and the eyes, he still looked like the young, loud, carefree moose he always had. His body was still thin and spindly, clothed with the murky-yellow uniform of the mega-conglomerate fast food place he now worked for. If the moose had been shown a picture of himself as Finnick saw him now when he was still in high school, he probably would've just laughed and nodded in acceptance. Such was the way of Christopher Kowalski.

The moose had to bend down to make eye contact. Finnick caught small flickers of movement in the sweltering kitchen behind him, but didn't focus on it. They shared a little glance, with Crisco no doubt looking for changes in his old classmate just as Finnick was doing. Before he spoke, he leaned in, grinning.

"Finny Southsand," he said. "That's a name I'd almost forgot. It's been some time man. Six?"

Finnick shook his head. "Six- _teen_. Sixteen years."

"Oh damn," the moose breathed, surprised at the figure. "Fuckin' quick, weren't it? But, I swear you came to pick up some stuff from my old apartment. Wait," he said, frowning "…I don't think you came in. Weren't it-"

"Nah," Finnick said. "It wasn't me; I jus' parked outside. Last time I saw you was when I was 'bout twenty."

The moose looked wistfully into empty space. "And now we're both thirty-six." He whistled in appreciation of the number. "I moved from that old apartment you parked by that time. But apart from that, I've done pretty much nothin' with my life since then, what about you?"

"Nah, I'm – I'm good…" Finnick trailed off in thought, looking away and brooding. He turned quickly back to Crisco after a moment and stared right into his brown eyes. "You want a job?"

"Already?" The moose laughed. "What kind?"

"A hustle," Finnick said, keeping his eyes trained on the Moose, "an easy one. Three-card. All you gotta do is act out the chump." He paused, still peering into the moose's eyes. "Split's fair. Sixty-forty, more dependin' on how much we score."

Crisco took a few moments, then bit his bottom lip and hummed in thought.

In the silence that followed, Finnick heard the now familiar horn and rev of the engine from the car behind. It was the same suited sheep, in the same glossy black SUV, with the same volcanic anger. Finnick caught his muffled shouting through the window and in his rear-view mirror. He tensed tensed his grip on the wheel in anger. Crisco caught Finnick's gaze into the mirror and followed it to the SUV. He chuckled slightly, then turned back to Finnick.

"Friend o' yours?" The Moose said.

Finnick shook his head with clenched teeth. "…Nah."

"Well, s'all good." Crisco leaned back and stretched. He looked behind around, then turned back to the van. "I'm tryna get fired today." He grinned. "Seemed like fun an' I'm fuckin' sick of this job. My boss is a real dick anyway, seein' him get mad will do wonders for my inner-peace and karma an' all that."

The SUV honked. It took a high amount of self-control on Finnick's part not to throw open his driver door and confront the sheep then and there.

"I'll do it." Crisco said. "Hell, I've been a chump most o' my adult life. Go on an' drive to one of the spaces in the parking lots. If you ain't got any plans, I can be out in a few minutes, and we can be makin' money like we used to."

Finnick only took a second, then nodded once in resolute acceptance. "Deal." He said. Before he made a move to drive away, Crisco quickly leaned in.

"Wait!" The Moose pointed at the paper bag in the passenger seat. "You plannin' on eatin' that?"

Finnick nodded slowly, and with confusion plain on his face.

Crisco grimaced. "How much it cost?"

Finnick looked over to the bag. He looked back at Crisco, a deep frown now on behind the aviators. "Four dollars or so…"

"Alright," the moose said, leaning back into his window, "that's okay. I can afford that."

"What in the damn hell did you do to the food?"

The moose smirked. "Don't worry about it. Nothin' too bad. Just added a little extra flavour." He shrugged, trying -and failing- to act apologetic. "I did say I was tryna get fired today, Finny."

Finnick looked down at the bag, disgust plain on his face.

Crisco saw the look and laughed again. "Chill _out_ Finny. It's no big deal. When I mean 'add flavour' I literally mean bringing in some nasty spices from a corner store." He paused. "Still _tastes_ like shit, though. I'll buy you sommin' from another restaurant."

"Yeah," Finnick said, "Do that". He turned forward, stepped on the gas, and drove off, but not far enough to miss the sheep pulling up his SUV and stopping at Crisco's window. He looked ready to explode at the moose, ready to unload all the thundering complaints he'd probably built up, but didn't get the chance.

Finnick watched, in his rear-view mirror, as Crisco flung the milkshake he'd talked about out if his window and into the SUV.

 **...**

The van stopped in a small two lane street. Large apartment blocks, the colourful kind with the exterior fire-exits, rose above them on either side. The densely parked cars and trees lining the sidewalk made the lane felt tight, cosy even. The buildings blocked the sun from reaching the alley, and the van's warm interior. It was a little cubby hole of the city; a small lane that felt hidden even though it was so close to the centre. The smell of fumes was high in the air, the sound of engines an omnipresent background hum.

Finnick grasped the wheel with two paws, leaning back on his seat. The aviators were still on. Crisco, after a short pit-stop back to his apartment a few minutes away, had changed. He'd done so after insisting that Finnick park on a street corner that looked as though it was nowhere near to the moose's apartment. Finnick wouldn't have cared that much if the moose hadn't wasted an extra twenty minutes by doing so, but he was here now, and that –Finnick hoped- was what mattered.

Crisco now wore a denim jacket over a rough brown rustic-looking cotton shirt that was something halfway between a knitted jumper and high-street fashion. Combine that with the ripped slate jeans and a bright brown belt, and Crisco looked like exactly the kind of hipster-come-hippie moose he'd always managed to look like in High-School. How little people change, Finnick thought.

The moose had the passenger window rolled down, letting in a crisp and sharp breeze that perfectly balanced the heat of the day. He was cramped, almost comically so, into hunching down and leaning forward. The fact that he was tall wasn't the worst of it; it was the antlers. There was a reason why most of the animals with antlers in the city exclusively drove convertibles.

In front of his crouched figure, the bobblehead of Oxen Rocks was nodding slightly, dying down in its movement until it was still.

Crisco shifted uncomfortably once more, peering about with a grimacing face as he spoke. "So, you got a place?"

Finnick looked over briefly, then turned his eyes back to the street. "…Yeah. I mean-"

"Where is it?"

"Not too far, but it's not too…" Finnick trailed off.

The moose looked over, nearly hitting his chin on his knees as he did so. He raised an eyebrow. "Too what?"

Finnick paused a second. He drove out the alley and onto another street, leaving the small stretch of ghost town behind them and re-joining the buzz of the city. He hung a left, then stopped at the lights behind some traffic.

"It's trash," Finnick replied after a while. "Last time I went there I got three that walked past in total."

"Damn." He said. The van followed the traffic as it edged forward. Crisco "When were you there?"

"Few weeks ago," he lied. He'd actually been there yesterday before going to the bar.

"Where were you?"

"Catton Walk."

"There for long?"

The van moved forward through the same apartment-bordered streets, stopping at the traffic and the lights often.

Finnick kept his eyes on the road and shook his head dismissively. "Too long." He murmured.

Crisco scratched the back of one of his ears and looked out the window for a few moments. "A'ight, well, we're going nowhere fast. I'll think of sommin'."

The city rushed by in a blur then ground to a halt again due to the presence of yet another red light.

"You remember anyone at all?" After seeing Finnick frown, Crisco quickly elaborated. "From high school, I mean." Finnick was quiet for a moment, so Crisco carried on the line of thought himself. "I mean, where are they?"

Finnick shrugged, turning with most of the traffic onto a busy six-lane avenue. Cars and people were everywhere. "In the city, somewhere." He replied.

"Yeah, I guess," Crisco said. "You remember Grey? The rhino with the shortened horn?"

Finnick didn't take his eyes off the road as they spoke, even when the van had stopped. "Sorta."

"I heard he got tackled by a water buffalo in a shopping mall. He'd been in and out of prison up to that, but now he's doing some real time."

"What for?"

"Well," Crisco began, smirking slightly, " _apparently_ he tried to rob a jewellery store. Nearly made it too, just got barrelled over by some jock buffalo. Looked like a quarterback, the way he flattened Grey."

"How'd you know what it looked like?" Finnick asked. He pushed on the gas, but only for a moment or two. The van lurched slightly forward.

Zootopia was always clogged, always jammed. The city council tried its best to fund the proper roads and divert the right lines, but in the end, traffic always got stuck in gridlock. Today was no different.

Crisco shrugged at Finnick's question. "Hell, you know. Saw a video on Fb or Insta'… usual stuff."

Finnick looked over -and up- at the moose with confusion. The frown was deep behind the aviators. "What and what?" He asked.

Crisco returned the confused look. "What do you mean 'what'? Y'know… Furbook… Instaclaw?" At Finnick's continued confusion, his eyebrows rose even higher "… _social media_?"

"Oh," Finnick said as he turned forward. "Nah, I don't use that technology or whatever it is."

Crisco leant in, confusion turning to disbelief. "' _That technology_?'" The moose laughed in disbelief. Finnick kept his eyes forward, unflinching. "Damn. Prince Zea would love you!"

"Prince who?"

"Just a social media guy… you sayin' you're phoneless?"

Finnick didn't like that word. It made his avoidance of technology sound like an economic problem, or one that could be solved by charity. "Yeah, whatever. S'pose I am."

Crisco heard the slight edge to Finnick's voice, saw the sharpness in his gaze as it was glaring forward. He scaled back his reaction a bit, settled uncomfortably back down into his seat and coughed.

"Yeah," he continued, "anyway. Grey walks into a jewellery shop in central."

"Central mall?" Finnick said with a frown.

"Central fuckin' mall." He chuckled. "I know, right? Anyway, he walks in, shouts at some people, smashes some glass, grabs some stuff, and sprints out. Didn't get thirty meters before he's tackled; _flattened_. People were shoutin' an' screamin', but this buffalo just ran up and knocked Grey out in one. _Bam_!" He smirked. "I mean, I ain't complaining. Grey had a damn shotgun strapped around him. Who knows where he got that from? S'all good, though; no-one was hurt bad, and the feds turned up and put him in cuffs not a few minutes later. Never mind social media; this thing made city news. Something like: 'Hero Buffalo Citizen Tackles Armed Rhino" The moose spelt out the words in front of him with as if he was placing them along the headline itself. He put his hooves down in his lap again once he'd finished, and grinned. "Guess that's not what Grey meant when he said he wanted to 'get famous'."

The van moved forward again, lurching for a few moments then stopping again. Finnick heard a shout of impatient anger and a horn somewhere behind him.

Crisco breathed out steadily. "Apart from Grey, I don't really know about anyone else. There was Westie, Julia, Evans," he said, counting them off in his head, "and Bax in my group."

He paused a long while.

"Oh shit," he said, turning to Finnick, "what about Nick?"

A split second after Crisco had asked the question, Finnick had stepped on the breaks. Some part of him had done it. Some reflex. He had no control over it; the muscles in his leg seemed to spasm uncontrollably, tensing and smashing the pedal to the floor. He also had no control of the shunt he got in return.

The car behind, a blue hatchback with a polar bear cramped inside, hadn't expected the sudden break and had no time to react before hitting Finnick's bumper. It was light, only a short jolt, but was still hard enough to make Crisco shout in alarm, and for the polar bear slam on his horn furiously. During all that, Finnick's mask had gone. Even behind the aviators, behind the fiery amber eyes, he looked vulnerable, like a child again. He looked scared.

It was there during that moment, that second or two, then it was gone. Finnick settled himself back in his seat and pushed the gas to fill in the gap he'd made. His mask came back quickly.

On the dashboard, Rock's, with his perpetual smirk, shook his head vigorously, as if he was some adrenaline junkie enjoying the collision.

Crisco, however, had the opposite expression. He looked over, frowning.

Before he could speak, Finnick made a dismissive gesture. "Stalled," he explained, not looking at the moose.

Finnick flicked his eyes to the mirror. To his mute surprise, the polar bear looked sad more than anything. At the very least, he didn't look like he was in the mood to get out and demanding insurance details. Finnick adjusted the mirror and breathed out slowly.

The excitement of the moment passed, and Crisco looked back out of the window again. It stayed like that for a while. They made slight progress, stopping and starting with a sea of cars and impatient drivers, but it was marginal. They stopped and started three times before Crisco spoke again.

"Palace," he said, not looking over.

Finnick shot him a confused glance.

Crisco turned to Finnick. "Palace Park. That's a good spot. Right next to ZTU and a few steps away from a big tourist centre. I've seen plenty of hustlers down there."

"Parking?" Finnick asked, keeping his eyes on the road. He breathed a silent sigh of relief as he saw the traffic gave way and traffic begin to speed up.

"Free an' close. Right next to the place, I think. Park's also pretty big, and I never seen many cops or whatever there."

Finnick brought the van to a stop at the intersection they'd been in a queue for and built the route to Palace Park in his head. It was nearly a straight shot, bar a small diversion on a flyover, from where they were now. Thirty minutes, maybe more depending on traffic.

"Ok," Finnick said. It wasn't like he had a better place in mind.

He hung a left on to another street. It was the same six-lanes, with the same colourful and modern apartments. They varied in size, in width, but they all looked clean and all looked brand new. It wasn't a secret that the renting prices for even a one-bedroom studio place were sky high in this area, but, just from looking at the outside of the buildings, it was easy to tell.

Crisco shifted in his seat again. "You got any music?"

Finnick shrugged. "Somewhere. But I remember you said you hated hip-hop, right?"

Crisco nodded. "Yeah." He scratched the same ear once more. "There a slim chance you got anything else?"

Finnick shook his head. "Nah. All rap."

"Fuck it then. Never mind."

They drove on in silence for a few minutes. The sun still beat down hard and high in the sky. Finnick flicked his eyes down to the clock. Twenty past twelve.

Crisco leant over and tapped Finnick on the shoulder lightly.

"Yeah?" He asked, not looking at the moose.

"You still want that meal I promised you?"

Finnick thought for a few moments. His stomach felt like it'd been punched -hard- with the amount it grumbled. He nodded.

"Good," Crisco said, "then turn on your next right. There's a Thai place here that's dope, an' the guy inside knows me. Might give a discount."

Finnick nodded again and turned into the street. His face, chiselled and granite that it always was, kept a frown as he passed through the shadow of an apartment.

What his expression didn't show, and most likely never would, was the battle he was having with his mind as he tried not to think about who should actually be sitting in the seat next to him.

His thoughts got unwillingly pulled back to Mane again.

' _I've always liked Fennecs.'_

What a lie, Finnick thought. His frown got deeper, and he gritted his teeth.

What a damn lie.

 **…**

Finnick stood quietly by his small box with his aviators on. He waited for Crisco and flicked about the three cards in front of him with an ease afforded through years of repetition. The flick, the little sleight of paw movement necessary for the three-card Monte trick, was so easy for Finnick that even when he glanced away from the cards and looked around idly at the park, he could still do it flawlessly.

Palace had a rectangular shape, unlike the parks near central. It also didn't have any trams or lakes or anything fancy like some of the bigger parks in central. A few paths, trees, benches and unlit lamps intermitted the green spaces, but it was mostly an open area. On all sides, apartments bordered Palace Park. The looming city centre rose above them in the north. It's reflective, angled, and sweeping towers traced the central skyline, rising to the central highest point of Zootopia that seemed unbelievably massive. He picked out the top body of the tallest one, called The Peak, rising out above all the rest. Its orange structure was immense in the midday sky.

Finnick had always wondered what the view was like at the top of it. The Fennec always pictured it to be clarifying, like if he'd ever get up there, the view would be like nothing he'd ever seen before. So much so, that would change how he thought, or change how he perceived the city. For now, though, he was still on the ground, and things still didn't make any sense.

Shouts and screams of excited young children rose above dim of car engines, and a few birds chirped on the trees above. Mammals sat out in the lawn, in groups, alone, in families or in couples.

Finnick brought his gaze back down to his cards and kept them there until he caught a flicker of movement at the exit to the park. He looked up and saw a moose dressed like a fifteen-year-old hipster finally stumble his way back into the park.

Crisco smiled at Finnick for a moment, then ducked his head down and came over. The small fox's setup, which consisted of a very Spartan arrangement only of three cards, a little box that acted as a table, and Finnick himself, was under the shade of a tall oak and was close to both the path and the exit, should need for a speedy getaway arise. Crisco came up and leant on the nearby tree.

"Alright, what've I gotta do again?" He asked.

Finnick kept his gaze down on the cards as he flicked them around. "Walk off," he said, "then come back. Change where you come from else people'll get jumpy. Look like you got time to kill, but not too much." Finnick put the cards down and looked up at Crisco. "Come over and bet. Look like you don't buy it at first, then be convinced. Don't look like a sucker. Bet some money, an' I'll shuffle it all around an' make it easy to pick. But," Finnick said, closing his paw into a fist to stress the point, "choose the wrong one first. You got that? Don't get it right first time. It'll look shady as all hell if you get it right first time. So don't. Pick the wrong one on purpose, an' then add some more money on."

"Twenty?"

Finnick shrugged. "Twenty, fifteen… jus' think how much you'd bet. Then you win. Take it an' leave quick; act like you're the only asshole in the city who's figured this out."

Crisco nodded appreciably. He had an assured smirk on his face. Finnick hoped Crisco talked as confidently as he acted. "An' this'll work, guaranteed?" The moose asked.

Finnick shook his head. "If I guaranteed shit then I'd be lying to you. Most mammals avoid a Fennec with cards but might come over if they're dumb enough. That, or haven't seen the travel advice they give you to skirt preds like us." He looked up at Crisco briefly, then back down again. "…or me."

Crisco smiled. "Okay, Finny. Seems pretty simple." He hesitated a second, then scratched his head and grimaced sceptically. "You think this'll work big guy?"

Finnick seemed to flinch at that nickname. It was just a small wince in his face, near undetectable, -especially with his eyes hiding behind the aviators- but it was still there. It wasn't that he disliked the name itself. No, it was the memories associated with it that made him recoil.

"I don't know. Maybe we'll get lucky," Finnick mumbled.

Crisco straightened out. "I mean," he began, "Isn't there, like, a better one we could do?"

The paw that Finnick had rested on his box flexed with silent frustration. His claws into the cardboard as he took a sharp breath in and looked up at Crisco. "You wanna' pretend to be my guardian and buy me a damn jumbo-pop?" He snapped.

Crisco frowned. "What?"

"Exactly," Finnick said, "now walk out the park and give it five minutes before you come back."

Crisco hesitated, then decided not to press the issue. He nodded, face still fixed with a perplexed look, and strolled off. Finnick watched him go along the path as he passed through the shade of trees and back into the sunlight again. After leaving the park and jogging across the road, he turned around the corner of a street and disappeared.

Finnick sighed deeply. He fumbled a paw under his glasses and rubbed his eyes slowly.

Finnick looked down at his cards again. He picked them up and practised the flick, the little sleight of paw, that he'd already mastered ten times over by now. It was easy, far too easy, but it wouldn't work. It wouldn't earn them anything. The odds were slim.

He tried not to think about it.

Finnick glanced up a Peak Tower, which still seemed many miles above the rest of the city, and returned to imagining the view.

 **…**

"Wait, wait," he said, taking yet another dumb, pantomime-like pause, " _How_ much can I win?!"

For what seemed like the hundredth time today, Finnick wondered how Crisco could be as bad at acting as he was.

The fox bit back his anger and tried to perform through the frustration. He was a professional; he could do this. They almost had a crowd going. A bunny couple had stopped, and an elephant was peering in at the game. The rabbits looked young, dressed in trousers and T-shirts and jackets like Maria wore. They looked like they'd just come out of their campus. The elephant looked middle aged, with small, peering eyes and a wearing a full business suit.

"Damn load if you choose right. It's not even hard, see?" He turned over the three cards in his paws. "All you need to do is pick the red, moose." Finnick tossed the cards down, flicking the red where it should be and resting the other two beside it. He began to shuffle them, and he made it easy. A cub could win this round, but that was the point.

Crisco but twenty of Finnick's own dollars down dramatically. Once again, Finnick bit back the frustration.

"Twenty on this one, my good Fennec!" His voice sounded canned and forced. Finnick caught the elephant shooting a quick sideways glance at the moose. Bite back.

Finnick's hand hovered over it, then he realised what Crisco had done. Again.

He selected the right one first time. The one thing he shouldn't do, the one thing Finnick had told him repeatedly not to do.

The delay earned another sideways glance from the elephant. Even the rabbits now looked sceptical. Finnick was forced to flip the card.

"Damn!" Crisco said as Finnick handed him two twenties, "I won again." Then, in what only can be described as a foolish and rookie move, he turned to the onlookers and said something that psychically made Finnick pinch the bridge of his snout.

"Y'all should try this! It's easy money!"

After just half a second, the elephant had shaken his head and laughed disbelievingly. He walked away. The bunny couple shuffled off too, frowning at Finnick and Crisco.

Finnick kept his eyes shut and his bridge pinched, his glasses now resting on his fingers. He breathed through his nostrils slowly, but even the sound quivered with rage. He was acutely aware of Crisco looking around, probably awestruck; probably oblivious.

"Shit, I-" Crisco began, "I thought I had em' this time Finny, I really did."

Finnick moved his fingers on to rubbing his eyes. He didn't respond. Crisco crossed his arms and looked around with a mild expression of annoyance.

Mild.

Like they hadn't been here for at least three and a half hours now. That they hadn't even made back what Crisco had spent at the Thai place. That they hadn't done this nearly a hundred times, and Crisco got it wrong every time. Every single time.

Finnick dropped his paws and whipped his glasses off. He dropped all pretences and his patience and glared at Crisco. His left eyebrow twitched, and he ground his teeth steadily. He probably looked crazy. Good, he thought.

"Quit messin' this up Crisco." The moose frowned incredulously and put his arms up. "What? All I said was-"

Finnick slammed the box, the cards and the aviators jumping up in the air for a moment. He pointed a finger at Crisco. "Quit messin' this up!" The silence that drifted in between them was heavy enough to dominate all other noise. It made the traffic, the distant jet engines, the wind -all of it- silent.

"I told you. Didn't I tell you? You pick the wrong one first. The wrong. One. It's damn easy! This one!" He turned over a card with a lightning-quick movement. "This one. Get that?" Finnick's glare never faltered.

Crisco kept quiet and passive, the confused expression on his face now wiped clean off.

"An', listen," Finnick said, "Never try an' shill it to the marks. Don't even look at them." He left a pause. The moose was silent. "You're sellin' it like it's a dryer or some shit," Finnick continued, "couldn't look faker if you tried. Goddamn used car seller or somethin': _'It's easy money'_?" Finnick looked sidelong at the moose. His expression was a mix of pure rage and incredulous disbelief. "' _easy money'_? You serious?"

Crisco looked down at the ground. "…Thought it'd sound encouragin'-"

"- _encouragin'_ them to haul ass away from the rigged game?" Finnick paused, the same sidelong stare drilling into Crisco's eyes. The moose didn't look up. "When I tell you to do sommin' you think that means don't do it?"

Crisco shook his head. "Nah Finny, I- I'm jus' no-" He hesitated, searching for the words under the hot glare of Finnick.

"No what?"

"No fuckin' good at this, damn. I ain't had to act since fourth grade. I can't do this dude. I can't. I panicked."

"You panicked for three hours straight?"

Crisco threw his arms up indignantly "Well, hell yeah I did! I don't know what I'm doin', I jus' didn't wanna say that because it'd fuck things up for you an' shit."

For the first time, a few parts of Finnick relaxed. He looked down at the cards, and the tense frustration in his face began to melt.

Crisco stepped closer. "Hell, Finny, I was lookin' forward to hangin' with you again. We never did much after senior year. I ain't seen you properly caught up with you in nearly fifteen years dude."

Silence passed. The anger had drained from Finnick's eyes, leaving an empty, tired husk behind. He looked at Crisco. "You said: 'deal'."

Crisco bit his tongue and looked away. "But I didn't promise you anythin'."

Finnick sighed out slowly, his nostrils flaring with the exhale. He kept his eyes trained on the moose. "Nah," Finnick conceded slowly, "you didn't."

Finnick's expression turned back into a blank slate. He picked his aviators back up and slipped them quietly on, collecting the cards with one swift movement of his paw.

"We packin'?" Crisco asked. He drew out his phone and clicked it on briefly. "It's only six-thirty Finny." He slid his phone back into a pocket.

Finnick picked up the cardboard box and folded it flat. "We packin'," he confirmed.

He trudged over in the direction of his van. Crisco stood frowning for a second, then there was a brief and unchecked flash of anger and annoyance across his face. It lasted for only a moment, and Finnick didn't see it. Crisco caught up with the fox and strolled beside him.

They walked silently on the path back to the sidewalk that his van was parked on. It was still bright and hot, the only difference being the new angle of the shadows and position of the sun, which was ducked behind a nearby apartment. Half of Palace Park was in shadow.

The midday crowd and almost entirely moved on, including the families and the couples, leaving only a few stray stragglers and individuals. Some mammals strolled quickly through the park past the unlikely duo, others took their time and enjoyed the reprise of green. A cheetah, dressed in a black bomber jacket and green cargo pants, smoked a cigarette and sauntered past them, bringing the sharp and acrid stench of nicotine with him as he walked.

"How much's the split again?" Crisco asked.

Finnick didn't look up. "Sixty-forty, what we agreed."

"Yeah, course," Crisco said, "How much we make?"

"Bout' ten dollars."

Crisco's face flashed with that same raw annoyance and anger. Unchecked, they spilt onto his expression, but he -again- controlled himself before Finnick saw it. He just ground his teeth quietly and scratched the back of his right ear. He did so slowly, almost massaging it as if to relieve stress. It was subtle and quiet enough for Finnick to neither notice or care.

They made it to the sidewalk without another exchanged word. Finnick opened his back doors and tossed the box in, then made his way to the side and opened his grey driver door. Before he could get in, Crisco quickly leant over and pressed on the door. Finnick froze.

"Hold up," he said. His voice had a nervous, desperate edge to it. "Wait Finny. Look!" He took his hoof off the door and pointed towards the park.

Frown deep, Finnick followed the gesture back to the park.

A jackpot had just walked in.

It was a group of about eight or so panda's, all Chinese tourists. They even had a leader with a little flag taking them around, and all of them wore bright clothing, sun hats and backpacks that seemed far too big for everyday walking. They had excitable reactions to almost anything, and at each blink seemed to be taking pictures impulsively. Some of the older couples took pictures with big cameras and expensive lenses, but the younger panda's all used their phones, snapping away at a rate that could fill an archive in minutes.

Finnick and Crisco looked at each other. The moose's expression looked tense like he was strained but trying hard to hide it. A little too hard, Finnick thought.

"So yeah?" He asked, "I mean we gotta get that. We gotta Finny."

"Yeah," Finnick said, watching the group make its slow, shuffling and fascinated progress through the park, "we do."

Crisco moved quickly to the edge of the park and looked back at Finnick with impatient glances. "Finny, we- we should go big on this."

Finnick moved carefully, opening the door and hopping into the van. He walked to the rear of it and made towards the safe. Stealing a glance at the group every other second, Crisco walked to the back door and opened one of them. He flooded bright light into the interior, where Finnick was patiently toiling away at the safe.

"Ben's with the five-o," Crisco blurted out. He looked back at the group.

"What?" Finnick said, frowning. He turned his back to the moose, blocking his view of the code he typed in.

"I thought you wanted to know an' I didn't get to tell you earlier. Ben. Ben Clawhauser. He's a cop now. You remember? The Cheetah. Got bullied because he was fat, an' everybody thought he was a queer."

"I guess," Finnick said dubiously. Something about the moose's tone unsettled Finnick a bit. He slowed down slightly.

"Thrirty'll be good Finny," Crisco said. He shot a glance back to the group and made a nervous face. "Thirty'll reel them in, make em' think it's a done thing here. The guide might even get involved." He looked back at Finnick. "Thirty."

Finnick nodded slowly, but with very little conviction. He reached down and grabbed the cash, then froze.

It was a lot.

It was a big chunk of what he had, parting with it would not be easy. But he saw the marks and they were so perfect. This opportunity was what he'd been waiting for the entire three hours. An entire group betting? They could make a hundred dollars in minutes, and the tourists might not even think they've lost. Crisco's acting wouldn't be a problem either, all he'd have to do is put a significant sum of green on the bet, and the tourists would follow suit. Finnick had seen it happen before. But then he looked at the money in his paw.

And, it was a lot.

The same anxiety he felt in the garage came back as he took it out. He cradled it, moving towards Crisco with a million things running through his mind, but nothing showing on his face

Finnick handed it over, and Crisco reached out and grabbed it. They both held it for a few moments. Crisco smiled unevenly as if convincing Finnick to let go. A part of the Fennec screamed at him to keep a hold. He let go.

Crisco took it in his grip, then something about his manner changed that put Finnick on edge. The moose's face relaxed briefly, then his expression fell. He sighed deeply and took a step back. Framed in the light of the doorway, Finnick watched the moose's gaze level with Finnick. Pity was in his eyes.

"What're you doin'?" Finnick said.

Crisco took another step back.

"I thought I could just walk off and leave you without a word." He said. "I can't. I can't do it. I'm sorry Finny. I owe it to you to admit it. I owe you that much." He put the money in an inside pocket of his denim jacket.

Finnick's face tightened into a look of pure disbelief, he shot towards his bat and picked it up, eyes fixed on Cirsco. He stood inside the van, still watching the moose with disbelieving eyes.

"Take another step back an' I'll bust your legs," Finnick breathed.

Crisco backed away again and seemed to cower from the threat. It wasn't fear that moved him. Finnick realised. No, it was something much worse; guilt.

"I'm desperate Finny. There's no way of tellin' you nicely. I'm scratchin' at debts door an' I don't have anywhere else to turn. I'm desperate Finny. I'm sorry." He seemed to breathe out the word, mouthing it repeatedly while shaking his head.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Then he took one look sideways and sprinted away.

Finnick crashed out the van, bat in hand, fury present in every single fibre of his being. He whipped his gaze around, only to see Crisco already halfway down the street at full tilt. The moose knocked past pedestrians as he ran, many of which shot him several confused looks. Before Finnick could even move, the moose ducked around the side of a building and gone completely out of sight.

He was fast. Finnick remembered that one thing about him. Through all the white-hot rage, all the red anger that had made his face rigid on a kind of upper level of fury, he could remember that about Crisco. He'd gone to a track meet only three or so times, but he was just quick. Just naturally quick, even for his species.

Now he'd left in the middle of the street.

Finnick was frozen with incredulous disbelief. It was a wave of anger so raw that he didn't know what to do. He wanted to turn and smash the lights out of the nearest car with his bat, wanted to dent the nearby parking meter until it bent at a forty-degree angle, wanted to shout and unload every swear and curse he knew until somebody tried to stop him, but he didn't. He could only stare, breathing in, breathing out, nostrils flaring, at the corner that Crisco had ran behind.

He stood like that for three and a half minutes.

No movement except the breathing interrupted his statute-like posture. His mind wasn't even that active. He'd reached a plain of upper fury, of a kind of dangerous calm, like a plane flying through a cyclone and then reaching the epicentre.

 _He'd left him in the street._

Finnick still couldn't believe it.

By this time, the group of tourists had nearly moved on completely, with only two staying behind the rest to eye the strange small fox that stood behind a parked van with a baseball bat in his paws.

They took a glance at his rigid body, looked at each other and shrugged, then shuffled on.

 **…**

It was a cruel twist of fate that found Finnick's feet planted to this park.

He'd put his box in exactly the same place, done exactly the same card trick. Of course, nobody had even as much as glanced his way when they walked by. A lone Fennec at a box with three cards in front of him? Anybody to walk over would be a fool. A dumb, rare fool.

He stopped asking. If anything, his voice scared people off more. There was a sense, a great inescapable feeling that pressed down on Finnick.

He tried not to think about it.

The sky was draped in an evening blue and wore a cold air as its aroma. The sun was creeping ever closer to the horizon, dragging along with it the light of the day. It was dusk, almost, but the now chilling air and the piercing breeze could've convinced Finnick it was night. Most of the mammals had left too, and now only a few stayed on the grass. Most just passed through, with somewhere to be, or someone to meet.

Finnick stayed by his box.

He had no plan, no goal. He just wanted to stand next to something familiar, doing something he knew how to do. That was enough, he thought. Just enough, nothing more; nothing less.

"Yo, Fennec," a close voice said.

Finnick looked up from his cards. The voice, assured and burly, had come from a Fennec, of all mammals. He stood at around the same height as Finnick, with fur that was, overall, a tone or two browner. He wore a branded white shirt, the tiny black sports logo on his breast, and light brown cargo shorts. He had his paws in his pockets and a slightly amused expression on his face.

He gave Finnick a smirk. Finnick nodded ever-so-slightly in response.

"So," the Fennec asked, stepping closer, "what's yo' plan here?"

Finnick sighed, taking off his aviators and placing them on the box. "You bettin' or talkin'?" He asked.

"Ay chill dude, I jus' wanted to ask what your plan was."

"It's a card game," Finnick said. "You bet on a card, an' I shuffle em'. You get-"

"Yeah," The other interrupted, "I know. Three-card. You flick it in right when you want, right? Steal the bet from em'. Jus' like we all watched how to do on the internet." He took his paws out of his pockets and flicked and imaginary card over; the trick Finnick had been practising for countless hours. "Or at least like _I_ did."

Finnick shook his head, unable -and uncaring- to respond. A tired expression crept back onto his face as he put his aviators back on.

The other smiled and stuffed his paws back in his pockets. "I mean, you good at it. I could never get it in line. Everybody would always call me out. But that ain't the issue, though, what I'm askin' is what's your plan?"

Finnick didn't respond.

"I mean, you standin' there like that… I'm surprised you ain't got the police called on you yet. You want to make money? Don't stand next to a box with some cards on it, dude."

"You come here to PSA me or what?"

The other smirked again, seemingly stopped by Finnick's remark. "Nah, I ain't." He said. He paused in thought and looked around the park "I jus' ain't seen another Fennec in a while. Startin' to think I lived alone in this city."

Finnick shrugged in a disinterested manner and collected up his cards.

"I know most of us live in S.H. Square," the other said, a disappointed expression on his face. "Ones with cash anyway. Don't see what the big deal is; we evolved, that means we can go away from where we came from. Don't see no harm in that."

He paused for a moment as Finnick stuffed the creased cards into one of the pockets in his khaki shorts. A breeze whipped through, and the other Fennec rubbed one of his arms to fight off the chill. He looked around then looked back at Finnick and smiled.

"How many of us you seen recently?" The other asked after a few seconds.

"I dunno," Finnick replied, "one in a crowd a few days ago, I think."

"Yeah," He smiled, "We rare. I like that."

Finnick looked over at his van, then back at his box. The other noticed his change of glance, then made as if he was about to leave.

"Good luck now dude. Ay, an' try sommin' else other than…" he gestured to the cards briefly, "this. Maybe deliver expensive stuff in that van of yours or whatever. You'll probably make more. Ciao."

He turned, but before he could go too far, Finnick called out. He had no idea as to what possessed him to do so, but he did it all the same.

"Ay," he called, and the other turned around, eyebrows high, "What's yo' name?"

The other smiled, nodded then called back:

"Nick."

Then he walked off.

Finnick, who's expression had become rigidly transfixed, watched him go all the way out, and turn around the edge of the park. He followed the tips of his brown ears over the fence until they passed entirely out of sight, then sighed in a way that exposed complete and utter exhaustion. He turned and walked to the van, keeping his cards, but leaving the box alone.

 **…**

Drive.

One word, one thought, one purpose was all that possessed him. He let it consume him to the point of fury, to the point of chaos. Drive.

So that's what he did.

He floored it around the intercity highway, stamping on the gas whenever an opening in traffic appeared, no matter how tight; no matter how dangerous. He and the van moved as one vengeful being, as one insane revving and shouting force. He dodged slower, inferior red lights and weaved like a world-class skier. He imagined him and his van on the city news, picked out by spotlight; an infamous, fleeting celebrity. He liked it, liked that image. He almost wished the car he'd just weaved in front of would call the police. Do it. He thought.

Go on, watch me outrun them too.

It wasn't his voice that goaded him on to spur through the black night, under the yellow road lights, and past the slow traffic. It was another, not his. Someone else's. It wasn't his fault that the green car he'd just cut off honked furiously at him, it was theirs.

He saw an opening and took it at full tilt.

How beautiful Zootopia looked at ninety miles an hour. How much the lights rushed passed. Any static headlight could be turned into a live set. Everything danced. Finnick gripped the wheel so hard his pads were beginning to burn. The van could still fly, but as it once did. It was not fast enough. Never fast enough.

But what does speed have to do with it?

Right after hearing the question Finnick pushed into a space and almost collided with a semi. Its horn was so loud that his ears nearly blew, but with a quick swerve and a continual lack of care, Finnick had righted himself.

At ninety miles an hour, every overtake could be your last. Finnick cherished that as he sped towards downtown.

 **…**

Then somewhere, in some dark street, he stopped on the sidewalk. He was so tired that he could psychically not move, so tired that he felt a kind of wrenching sickness that pummelled into his stomach. His eyes stung like salt in a fresh wound, and his eyelids were as heavy as lead. He was so tired that he didn't even register where he stopped.

He just parked in a space on the street, pulled up the handbrake, and pulled the keys out. Within seconds of closing his eyes, he slumped down and was already dead to the city.

For the first time in his life, Finnick consciously wished for a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 **Thank you to hmwealsey for beta reading this chapter**


	5. Five

**FIVE**

 _"Don't ask me that."_

 _"Why?"_

 _"Don't you ever dare ask me that." His voice was sharp. "I already know the answer anyway."_

 _"I don't care. You think you know it, but you don't. So I'll keep asking tough guy."_

 _"Don't act all damn high with me. I don't know you. I never did. I don't give a shit that you left, I'm already over it; I moved on. You probably convinced yourself you knew me, probably told everyone too, told Locke. But I didn't know you, so don't you dare ever ask me that, cus you ain't got the right to."_

 _The other smiled, turned away and looked around._

 _Everything was so peaceful. There were no buildings, no streets, no cars, no hum, no planes, and no people. Finnick was stunned; he wasn't in the city._

 _He was outside. In Xanadu. The river, the grass. The canyons, the trees: it was so fleetingly beautiful,_ _as if it was water trickling into Finnick's paws. In that moment, he tried desperately to grasp at it. He knew it wouldn't last._

 _He felt guilty. To be here now, with them, and say what he said? He'd ruined it all. Finnick fell silent and quietly ashamed. His anger and suspicion retreated deep into his subconscious, replaced by a younger Finnick. The one that used to smile._

 _"It hurt you to say that, didn't it?" The words echoed after they'd been said. "It did. I remember that, tough guy. That anger. It's that shield you use, isn't it?" They nodded and smiled in a knowing and infinitely understanding way. "No, it's smart. It really is. Make them think you're angry, make them all think that's just you; you and your sharp an' tough ol' personality. It covers pain well, so damn well…"_

 _They paused and looked out once more. A breeze whistled through five miles of fertile ground, and Finnick heard its low tones and felt it ruffle the frayed ends of his fur. It was calming not to hear traffic._

 _"I miss you," they said. "I miss all the times when you didn't wear all that, have all that shield up. You'll tell them all that this is just how it is, just who you are. But it's not, isn't it? Admit that to yourself. Go on, please. Just once, now that I'm gone."_

 _Finnick breathed out and steadied himself._

 _"What did you mean, Nick?" he asked._

 _The name echoed so loud and so far. The tones bounced in Finnick's head, and the word itself took a life of its own._

 _"What did you mean?" Finnick asked again. "When you asked me that question, what did you mean?"_

 _"You said you knew the answer."_

 _"I lied."_

 _"I know," they replied. "Well, I can't tell you."_

 _"Why not?"_

 _They smiled slightly. "Cause' I'm not Nick, grumpy."_

 _It was true; she wasn't. She reached out and brushed a small, sandy-coloured paw along the length of Finnick's arm._

 _"I love you, Finnick," she said. "Please be safe."_

 **…**

This time he didn't jolt up. It was only his eyelids that fluttered open.

In the seat, half-covered by the sun and half-baked by the heat of the new day, Finnick sat with his head tilted back on the rest and his heart in his throat. He had stopped on the side of a street, a narrow and busy one fenced in by tall apartments. Outside, vehicles rolled by infrequently, and a few mammals strolled past, but Finnick didn't see any of it.

It was just his amber eyes, looking about, and no movement. He was stone, with the only obvious thing separating him from a statue being the slow rise and fall of his chest and his tired, slowly blinking eyes.

Then he blinked a few times in a row.

It was silent inside the van. He made no noise except breathing. He started gulping and letting out long breaths through his nose after doing so. He thought of her voice again, thought of her face.

Then his eyes became wet.

It was no less than the slightest glimmer, no more than the tiniest shine, but it was still there. Finnick's breathing got louder and deeper. After a few moments, he started frowning.

It wasn't uncommon for Finnick to frown, but this time it seemed different. It was the way he sat, the way he blinked, and the way his eyes began to dampen. It wasn't a frown born out of anger, or outrage, or jealousy or hatred or even irritation. It was something crippling enough to push even a mammal like Finnick to the brink of vulnerability: grief.

Then he blinked hard and wiped his eyes.

He rubbed at them furiously, then a sharp anger overcame him and he slammed the dashboard. He'd left a scuff mark on the plastic, a little patch of white that separated it from the rest of the grey. His paw throbbed in pain. He looked down at it and squeezed hard, focusing on it, letting it engulf him.

He looked up and saw something else from his past.

 **…**

White light shone in from the open door where he'd entered. Finnick stepped over and shut it, keeping his paw on it for a while.

He considered putting thought into his actions, but something stopped him. He knew what it was. The dream. Of course it was. His paranoia had eroded, as had his will to fight the oncoming tide of poverty, of plan B. Instead, he tried not to think about it.

But that wasn't working either, so he focused on what he knew, which was music. Call it a reflex.

He looked up at the hallway. It was minimal in furnishing, but the walls were spaced evenly with records and photos that celebrated a bygone age of music. It was a museum, of sorts. Framed pictures of rock classics stood tall, as did their equally legendary records. Finnick wandered forward.

 _The Beagles_. Of course, Finnick thought. What self-respecting studio wouldn't have a mention of them? Their commendations were on the left wall and surprisingly sparse. It looked like the owner was only trying to tick a box, or fill a requirement. The pictures were grainy and monochrome, and it was hard to see from Finnick's hieght, but he could still make out their white-wash grins and identical haircuts. Finnick appreciated what they had meant for music, but–probably similar to the owner judging from the small amount of items-his interest of them ended there. He moved on.

 _AZ/DZ_. Now that was a band. Well and truly. Their items were on the right wall and took up much more space. In one picture Malcolm and Angus stood in front of a red-brick wall, the kangaroo brothers dressed in the black jackets and amused grins as if they found the camera somehow hysterical. Or, more likely, they were high. A ghost of a smile traced Finnick's lips as he looked at the photo. He moved on once more.

 _Guns N' Rodents, The Fur Fighters, The Zoo_ … Finnick made slow progress as he inspected them all. It was all mostly the same; photos, rare signed items, and framed albums. They even had one or two shots with members from different bands standing with what looked to be the owner, who was a huge bright-eyed water buffalo that had the slightly dishevelled look of a rock enthusiast. Finnick was surprised that he didn't remember hearing about him, or about this place. He shuffled on and looked around, eyes bleary.

Then he saw the _Mush_ collection, and his expression seemed to focus. In fact, his entire posture did. He strode quickly towards it.

His relationship with this band was more straightforward than the others. He loved _Mush_ with nearly every fibre of his being. There was nothing much more to assess. He was proud of the fact that he had taped and listened to every single one of their tracks, even their newer work (which was damn hard to find on tape, Finnick had discovered). He'd developed an admiration for the group that most super-fans did, which was something a lot like a long-term friendship. For Finnick, the band had ceased to be something he listened to, because now it was something he _knew_. He knew when they were at their best; when Geddy had put all his effort into a track and perfected his bass line, or when Lifeson had gone the extra mile for a riff that had seemed too impossible to manage. He could tell when Peart had taken control and, in effect, demanded so much more from the other two members with his ludicrous solos and changes in pace. He just knew _Mush_. The size of the collection was the largest of all of them, a fact that made part of Finnick interested to meet the owner because, clearly, he was a mammal of good taste.

The size of the collection was the largest of all of them, a fact that made part of Finnick interested to meet the owner because, clearly, he was a mammal of good taste.

He studied each photo. Geddy and Lifeson on stage; Peart mid-solo; the three of them all hunched in a live room toiling away at their work. He looked at the albums and listed all the release dates in his head as he looked over them. _Mush_ , their debut, released in 1974. _Permanent Wales_ , released in 1980–the year Finnick was born. That was a classic, but it wasn't Finnick's favourite. No, that came in 1977. He searched diligently for the cover of the slacked figure on the throne, surrounded by rubble, and found it.

 _A Farewell to Cobras_.

But then, Finnick wished he hadn't. Suddenly, all he could remember was the dream, or, more specifically, where he was in that dream.

Xanadu. It was his favourite song of all time, but thinking about it at that moment only pulled his thoughts back to the figure, back to her. Finnick breathed slowly and rubbed his eyes, fighting a losing battle for his composure. He'd lost the will to be angry. He knew it was all over now. Whatever chances he had of making anything were slipping through his fingers. He had no control anymore. The city mocked him; Nick mocked him.

He'd left, and taken his luck with him. In just a few short days Finnick was faced with the prospect of Plan B.

He tried, so very, very desperately, not to think about it.

Then he heard a bass line being played.

The following silence was deafening. It had come close, with the speakers not far away. He turned and began to move slowly to the exit of the corridor and swung his head round the corner. There was another connecting hallway, this one much smaller. Directly opposite to him was a door labelled 'Live Room'. The 'In-Use' light was on above it. To his immediate left, he could see the mixing room through an open door. The desk, packed with sliders and switches, was surprisingly empty. In fact, apart from just Finnick and the bassist, the whole studio felt deserted.

Then he heard the bass again, and recognised it as the beginning of the track to 'Roundabout'. Both of Finnick's large ears tuned to it. The bassist was playing it at a slower tempo for practice, repeating the same chords over and over to elevate them to muscle-memory status. It was by no means a beginner track. Finnick remembered it taking him a good few months to master at full speed. That felt like it was a lifetime ago. A lifetime that Finnick now thought he had only observed, not been a participant of. The memory of it all struck him like lightning. He imagined his two paws on the guitar.

 _Anticipation by an eighth note, then an E, two ghost notes on the same chord, an F sharp, two ghost notes, back to the E, then to a G, then to another two ghost notes_ … it was ingrained. Finnick realised that he _had_ to see who was playing, what he was playing.

 _Sharp sound; they're good with the two-claw method. Sounds like a Zender, a Jazz Bass. It's deep, has an edge to it. It must be old._

He moved down the hallway and stepped into the frame of the open door. Nothing had been built for his height, of course. All the chairs were taller than him, the mixing table was out of reach, and he could only see the top of a soundproofed wall and the ceiling through the window to the live room. After only a second of hesitation, he moved towards the chair of the mixing table. A part of Finnick still thought he was dreaming.

He jumped up onto the chair and saw the bassist.

It was the big water-buffalo that he'd seen before. The owner. He looked a little older now, with slightly more scuff marks on his black horns and a few more greying hairs at the base of his skull. He wore baggy slate jeans and a grey knit sweater. The sleeves were rolled up past his elbows. He hadn't seen Finnick because he was too focused on his blue and white Zander Jazz Bass. He played the loop again. Finnick stood on the chair and watched the figure silently. He saw himself in that room. His younger, happier, self.

Seeing the owner made him question a few things. His shield was no longer able to negate them. He wondered why he had sold his bass. It was beautiful.

"Hey!" A close voice said in shock.

Finnick's first reaction wasn't to flee or to whirl around and offer an explanation. Rather he sighed, leant over the controls and pressed the button to turn on the mic. He brought it close to him and spoke into it.

"You're a good player," he said.

He heard his own deep, hoarse voice echo around the live room. The buffalo shot his gaze up and looked at Finnick, the initial scowl turning into something more of an amusedly perplexed frown, and mouthed 'thanks' through the window.

"You care to explain what the hell you think you're doin', fennec?"

Finnick turned. In the doorframe stood a huge rhino dressed in cargo shorts and a white shirt. His features, inlaid between old lines and a gruff complexion, were twisted into a look of pure disgust. Everything about him, from his dark eyes to his tense body, emanated a kind of violence Finnick had trained himself to recognise. He levelled a steady gaze at the rhino but didn't speak.

"Cause' I can't recall hirin' a minor to screw about with the mixin' table." He was getting frustrated at Finnick's blank stare. "You a mute or sommin'? You speak English? Get the fuck outta' the chair!"

"Keep it civil, Dan." The owner had turned his mic on, and his canned voice came through the speakers. Finnick looked at him.

"Why? Asshole comes in here an'- an' thinks he's a king!"

"I don't care, don't shout. It's unnecessary."

The rhino reached over to Finnick and extended a short arm to grab him. In more of a reflex than a conscious effort, Finnick backhanded him away. He was forceful enough to surprise him.

"You…" Dan began in lower tones, drawing his hand back, "shouldn't forget your size, now. I could end your fuckin' life with a single step."

" _Dan!_ " the owner shouted through the mic. "Show him out, and that'll be all. If you hurt him or even touch him, you're fired. You hear? I will not be known as an owner that condones violence in his own goddamn studio." He sat back down again and watched the rhino with an expectant stare.

Dan relented. "This way," He said, but with no less venom. He opened a nearby door.

Finnick took one look back at the owner, who'd turned his mic off and fixed his full attention back to his bass, then hopped off the chair. With distant eyes and a cold frown, he followed the rhino out of the mixing room, down a short hallway, and out into the reception. The whole studio was empty. Dan pulled open the front door and held it for Finnick, letting in the sounds of the city and a bright midday sun.

"Go on, cub," he spat.

Finnick looked up at him and clenched his teeth. His paranoia may have eroded, but his dignity hadn't. But, as much as it called for him to dig his claws into the legs of 'Dan' and watch him howl in pain, the rhino was right. He hadn't forgotten his size.

No, he would need his bat if he wanted to do any real damage to him.

Even the motivation for that eluded Finnick. His eyes turned to the floor again, and he walked out.

Then the rhino kicked him, and everything happened pretty fast.

There was the initial impulsive shock of being kicked by an animal ten times his size, then a moment of pure panic where he lost his balance and fell down the stairs, then the recurring pain of bouncing off concrete steps and, finally, a concrete floor.

Finnick's mind reeled from the attack and assessed the damage as he came to a halt face-down. First of all, he was winded. That wasn't too bad. It would pass. What was worse was that his left knee bone had knocked at just the worst angle of possibly the last step, which resulted in a convulsing pain that forced Finnick to reach down and clutch it. Everything else was minor: scrapes or bits of his body that had begun to sting. He used his free paw to prop himself up, and eventually stand up. In a hunched position, he stared up at the elephant.

"Fuck you, Dan," he breathed.

The rhino smiled cruelly. "Like I said, one step, cub. Just one." Then he went in and shut the door.

No one had seen it of course. Well, a few mammals had been passing, but still, nobody had _seen_ it. One dodged around the hunched figure of Finnick as he walked, some suited prey busybody on his way to his next promotion, or something like that. Although his position on the street meant he would've at least heard Finnick fall, he didn't even shoot a sideways glance as he passed.

Finnick stopped trying to make himself care. He had no real desire to get his bat and walk back in. He could tell what would happen. He felt it. From the kick, he'd tapped into a core of raw, reckless violence the rhino reserved for his species and his species only. If he went back in, there was the possibility that he could die. That, Finnick thought, or go out on a stretcher to the nearest Hospital. He couldn't figure out which was worse.

He tried not to think about the pain, both physical and mental, but it was hard. Hard because, as he began to shuffle slowly in the direction of his van parked around the corner, each limb seemed to be in protest. His head throbbed from the sheer shock of the moment, his arms stung from the friction of the concrete, and his torso wheezed and strained, only now recovering from being winded. His left knee was numb, and every other step Finnick had to raise it a little bit extra and sometimes semi-hop along the sidewalk because the pain demanded it. He shuffled around the corner, and almost lost his balance when a jogging rabbit brushed past him, and his van came into sight.

He crushed his embarrassment. He was acting like a coward, and he knew it. He never used to feel embarrassed, never used to care if he got hurt. If he could limp away, that was survival, and survival was good enough. But this one was different. He'd opened his guard at the worst possible time, allowed himself to emotionally indulge when he should've gotten his shit together and moved on. Dan had proved the theory that the shield should be a twenty-four-seven operation, not a mere screen to be put up and down again when Finnick felt like it. He had forgotten his shield, but worse; he'd forgotten his size. Forgotten that the city was out to get him.

" _Goddamn dumbass_ ," he whispered to himself.

Finnick slowly reached up and pulled the door open to his van, wincing as he did so. He reached his non-injured leg in, then hoisted his left knee after that. He shut the door and worked through the pain for a while, breathing deeply and slowly and flexing his left knee as regularly as possible to dispel the numbness. He wasn't winded anymore. It was a victory so small Finnick didn't even bother to count it.

He was about to put his keys in the ignition and drive off, but before he did, a little movement on his windscreen stopped him. A small piece of paper fluttered, caught under one of his wipers. A flyer? Finnick opened his door and reached a paw around to pick it out, then shut the door again once he'd brought it inside.

It was a 'County of Zootopia'-sealed Parking ticket, issued about fifteen minutes ago for the sum of eighty-eight dollars to be paid by the deadline of 5/8/16 –about twenty-five days from now. The licence listed on the paper was HB05198. His licence.

Finnick looked at it for a moment, folded it twice, then popped open his glove box and placed it in. He took the aviators out from the same place and shut it slowly. He didn't have the money, and he knew it. He wasn't even close.

The van started up with a strained delay, then slid slowly out of the parking space and moved away.

 **…**

Finnick passed Commodore Park without interruption and pulled up beside Mane Bar. It was closed. He could see it from the unlit interior and locked the door. He got out of his van and closed in on one of the windows.

The day had progressed fast, the sun now standing high as it always did at that time of year. Finnick leant towards the window and cupped his paws over his eyes to get a look inside.

The interior of the bar looked cold and dark. Nothing moved, and every piece of furniture, from the stacked wooden chairs to the glistening bar-taps, was stationary in the still air. It looked especially dead, more so than any other place he could recall, because the energy of Leo was absent. He was the heart of it all, and as such when he was away the place reminded Finnick more of a body on a morgue table than a bar.

"Ciao Finnick!"

Adelfo walked up and stopped beside Finnick. The wolf looked tired as if he'd only gotten up a few minutes ago and was suffering for it with all the frayed fur sticking out and thick lines below his eyes. Despite this, a cheerful smile prevailed. He wore a simple black T-shirt, with the white-on-black image of the words 'The Godfurther' hung up by a claw gripping puppets strings. Very Italian. Underneath that, he wore simple slate jeans held by a brown leather belt and silver buckle.

Finnick nodded slightly in recognition, looked in the bar for a half-second, then turned back to Adelfo. "You seen anybody?"

"In- In… _il_ …" He couldn't find the word in English, so settled on pointing at the bar instead.

Finnick nodded. "Yeah, in the bar. You seen Leo?"

" _Sengore_ _Cruz Smith_?" Adelfo asked.

Finnick nodded.

"Oh, uh- no." He paused and scratched his brow in thought. "Is -uh, family… _problema_." He seemed unsure of the words as he spoke them.

"Family problem?"

Adelfo nodded. " _Si, si. Problema Familiare_."

Finnick glanced at the bar. "You mean with Zahid? Somethin's wrong?" He frowned and turned back to Adelfo. "What about the others?"

Adelfo looked at him with apologetic eyes and shrugged. "Sorry feen; My English, uh- not so good." Then, after a moment, he snapped his fingers and exclaimed 'Ah!' in realisation. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a large smartphone, then began tapping quickly away on it. Finnick watched him with a curious frown.

After a moment, he finished. " _Prego_ ," he said, and passed the phone to Finnick.

He'd used some translation software on his smartphone to turn his message into English. Finnick read the small black text aloud for clarity's sake.

"'Sorry my English is very bad. Zahid was in an accident but is ok. Leo closed the bar for the day to stay with him.'" Finnick looked up at Adelfo, who held a triumphant smile on his face.

Their phone-assisted conversation continued. Adelfo listed off all the reasons why the regulars were not present. Maria was at work, so didn't have time, and Rhys had apparently gotten wasted on Friday night and had consequently spent the morning in a drunk tank, so wasn't even fit to open a door, let alone serve alcohol. They hadn't gotten word from Gena, but that wasn't uncommon. She was a busy mammal and with her own business to run. The conversation, which would've taken less than a minute on standard, non-language barrier terms, lasted a lot longer with the added go-between of the phone. While Finnick did appreciate the effort from Adelfo, he quickly lost interest.

He had more on his mind.

When the Italian waved a merry goodbye, off to finally look for a job, Finnick walked to his van and drove away.

 **…**

"…An' that's just it. That's been hardest to deal with. Potto ain't one to negotiate, so I have to step in. Talk to all these mammals an' try and weave through all these forms with all the fine print at the bottom. I mean, look at me? Do I look like a damn real estate agent or sommin'? I can't deal with those suit and coffee types, the whole bureaucratic passive-aggressive 'please get the hell out of my way' deal." Crews shook her head and sighed. "What a joke. This whole damn business is a joke! Still, I get to mess about with cars so what do I care? If this place sinks, well, I'll just move on."

Then the bunny frowned and looked down at Finnick. "What is it you said was wrong again?" She asked.

Finnick leant against the van while Crews threw the last of some spare part into a nearby box. The garage was relatively similar to how it had been a few days ago, with the same amount of clutter–just in varying positions. The posters were still up, Potto's blinds were still down, and the Furd was still barely even a car. Crews had added a few more parts and it now looked passable for entry into a less-reputable demolition derby, but it was still far from road-worthy. The garage–somehow–now had an even stronger stench of gas and grease within it.

"Gearbox," Finnick mumbled after a moment, "makin' noises… again."

"It is?" Crews said, surprised. She frowned seemingly at herself. "Okay, I'll check it out… _again_. You might have to get a new one if it keeps up." After collecting some tools, she strolled over. The rabbit wore the same jumpsuit with the near identical amount of black stains on it. She still had most of the Band-Aids on she had last time, too. Maybe even a few more.

Finnick shuffled to the green chair and jumped up onto it. Most of the stuffing was still removed, and what was left of it still felt rock-solid, but he still didn't care.

"But, _whatever_!" Crews called, "this development thing has got me really messed up." She gestured towards the open garage door, through which the grinding sounds of construction work were traversing. "I mean, they're ripping up -or 'reclaiming'," she said, making air quotes with her paws, "the entire four or five blocks north of us. All the noise, the suit types that I mentioned, an' the workers… takin' me out of my zone y'know?" She popped open the van's hood and began a general assessment of its parts. "An' _that_ …" She said, leaning in, "is a zone that I like to stay in, please an' thanks."

Finnick's stomach lurched. He felt sick, a kind of raspy illness that had begun to crawl slowly up his throat. The fact that it his mouth was as parched as a desert didn't help either. Hunger and thirst were cruel masters. He rubbed his eyes and tried not to think about it.

Crews began again. He'd missed his opportunity to speak, like missing a comet passing by in the sky. Both were equally rare.

"So, you never did tell me your name," she said. "You like being the mysterious silent guy?"

"Yeah."

Crews chuckled. "I half-guessed you'd shrug at that. Well, you are certainly mysterious Mister fennec. You have a retro-ass van that looks like something straight off the cover of a _Van Zaylen_ album. And…" she leant into the van once more, "you live in it." The rabbit fixed her attention on something in Finnick's engine and spoke without any real focus.

Said in a different way, that quip that Crews had made might've sparked anger in Finnick. But it was spoken softly, almost admirably. He let it slide, just as he let his question bide its time until the hunger and the thirst became truly unbearable.

"Yeah. That's mysterious if I ever heard it. You, like, travel around, coast-to-coast? Route 36 an' all that?"

"Nah." Finnick thought of Plan B again and thought that soon his answer to a question like that might change.

"So what, you just stay in the city?" She looked and frowned at Finnick. "All the time?"

Finnick didn't meet her gaze. He shrugged.

A smile grew on her snow-white face. "There we go!" She looked back down but kept smirking. "See, I'm playing mysterious fennec bingo, and-"

"Yeah, my shrug is on there. Funny." Finnick interrupted. "Tell you what; you stop askin' questions, an' I'll stop shrugging, deal?"

Crews seemed to shrink a little at that. She stopped smiling.

"Fair enough," she said.

 **…**

Time moved fast, which was the opposite of what Finnick wanted.

Things were reaching a head. Well, things overall, where–but in the now and then time was running out too. Finnick's pride battled with his survival instincts, and he began to see Crews battle with her doubt. After about ten minutes, she'd given up on the engine and had tried looking underneath the van. She spent another fifteen searching as best she could, all the while her buzzing, talkative nature diminishing somewhat to be replaced by a more persistent frown. She looked like a mammal who had lost something and was trying to hide how furiously they wanted to find it. Finnick opened his eyes after having them closed for a while and spoke a few short words that damaged his ego even more than the kick at the studio ever could.

"You got any food?"

Crews looked up from the engine—which she had just returned to staring at—and raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What? Oh, food. Yeah, no. Sorry. Ate it all last night. I know for a fact there ain't any left because I trawled through all the cupboards to find some. Even Potto didn't have any in his office," she said, gesturing to the green door.

Finnick averted his gaze to Potto's office blinds and began to study every single one in detail. Call it a reflex.

Crews stepped back from the machine and folded her arms. Her frown returned. "Look, I can't find anything. I've searched it all." She was frustrated. "I've looked at the engine, the transmission, the gearbox. If you got something loose down there, it's damn well hidden, and if something's broken you probably need to do a full re-fit because I can't see it."

Finnick caught shadows of movement behind the blinds. The huge figure of Potto stepped through the office door.

Crews turned. Her whole expression became tighter. "This ain't funny anymore, Potto."

He closed the door. "What, I look like a comedian?"

"You look like a lazy asshole who's not even bothered that we haven't had a customer in almost a week."

Potto frowned and gestured at Finnick. "We got one right here." The hippo turned to him and nodded slightly in recognition. "Hey, bud."

Finnick nodded in turn, producing a movement that was the bare minimum of a response.

"Yeah," Crews said, "but didn't see you breakin' out of nap time to help him."

Potto rolled his eyes and chuckled. He walked towards the garage door.

"You're _leaving_?"

"Yeah," he replied, "gotta go get a bite to eat."

"What about the other client?"

He stopped and turned. "What?"

"The other client!" Crews shouted. "The goddamn cheetah who's bringing a two-door in about thirty minutes!"

He shrugged. "What, is it a special order?" He asked. For the first time, Finnick noticed a hint of interest in his voice.

"No… but what does that fuckin' matter? It's a-"

"A'ight, then you can handle it," he said, all interest removed. Before Crews could speak, he walked out the garage door and disappeared.

The bunny shook her head, bit her tongue and stared with wide green eyes. "Well…" She breathed, gathering herself. "I can't find anythin' wrong with your motor."

Finnick jumped off the chair and shuffled to the van.

She turned to Finnick. "In fact, I don't think there is something wrong. What, you wanted to come and see me?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Finnick mumbled as he reached up to the door handle.

Crews came around the right side of the van and leant on the hood. She had that curiously amused expression on her face that was beginning to get on Finnick's nerves. He pulled the door open and jumped in.

"What is it then?" She asked as Finnick closed the door. "Not jus' a check-up, right? You don't seem like that kind of mammal. In fact, the only thing you asked for is…"

"What did I ask for?" Finnick snapped. "Did I ask you to talk to me, huh?" He looked bitter, like he was going to great lengths to hide stronger emotion, and spoke as if to himself.

Crews seemed to buckle at the question. "No, but-"

"Nah, I didn't," Finnick cut over her, "But you _still_ talk. You think they're jus' filler words, right? In the damn air. Nothin' to it. But when you start to ask questions, that ain't filler anymore. That's too far. Cus', sure, some mammals don't give a shit. They'll answer any damn question you throw at them. But some others… some others don't want their past shared, don't want to throw damn words around like they mean nothin' to no one. Learn to recognise that, rabbit." He moved as if to leave, but was stopped by her response.

"Which are you?"

He looked at her. Her eyes held a new kind of resolve that made Finnick pause for a moment. The emeralds were alive. Blazing. He saw something of _her_ in the rabbit.

He turned to Crews, mouth twitching into something that was almost a smile, then looked forward again. He sat like that for a few moments, with garage hung in silence. All that intruded was construction noise, but even that seemed quieter. Crews stood, arms folded, eyes challenging. Finnick sat, eyes blank, arms on the steering wheel.

"Ciao," Finnick said after a while. He pulled down on the gear stick and backed out into the street.

 **…**

It was approaching sunset, the orange sky above announcing so with spectacle. Low clouds that looked lost traced the skyline. They were wispy, ghostly shapes that only seemed a few hundred meters off the ground. Above them, the white sheets of softer, more translucent clouds loomed like a sort of thin linen covering over the sky.

Finnick looked back down.

The van was silent, its colours muted by a dark shade the apartment buildings cast over him. Oxen Rocks had lost motion but never lost his smirk. The rear-view mirror was still cracked, and when Finnick looked into it, he saw a dark interior untroubled by the city and its motion.

He breathed out slowly, steadily, and grasped the door handle with his right paw. His eyes were forward. He pulled and then pushed, and cold evening air rushed in to meet him.

 _Coward_ , a part of him whispered.

He hopped down and shut the door, then reached up and locked it with his keys. Stuffing them into the back pocket of his khakis, he looked at the exit of the alley for a few moments, paw placed on the side of his door as if ready to jump back in at a moment's notice. His expression, however, omitted none of this doubt; it was as flat and as stoic as ever.

Cars rushed in and out of the light. Mammals walked through it. The city breathed in that space but was silent from where Finnick was standing. He saw an approaching sunset and an orange sky. He moved towards it slowly.

Finnick walked to the park, but progress was hesitant.

But it wasn't the obvious kind. The hesitations came through as only very subtle movements and only slight changes in pace or attention. A little longer at the corner, a slightly slower pace. It seemed to be something even Finnick couldn't detect. The numbness of his knee was now completely gone, with only a few small scratches on his arm as a reminder to Dan and the studio.

 _Coward_. It was louder now.

He looked at the sun, still bright but somewhat diminished with its creeping approach to the horizon. Things were starting to slow down with the day. Mammals were no longer hurrying to get anywhere, bar the occasional bright-nylon jogger, and the traffic had eased somewhat on the roads.

Finnick passed four-story apartments, all brick and brown in colour and texture. The smell of fumes still lingered in the air, and the sound of cars never faded. He turned right again at the street corner.

When the park came into view, his pace slowed that bit more

 _Coward_.

He approached it, walking with his paws stuffed in his shorts and his eyes planted dead ahead. He was invisible to the world. The zebra who just passed, or the sheep that just entered their apartment building, they had no clue who he was. He was a face, a detached mammal who, to them, existed, but not by much. He got closer to the park.

Finnick stopped at the final crossing. His mind, which had now settled on a sustained stream of derision, said _coward_ another time. Finnick hated that word.

"We all have a defining moment."

The voice had come from right beside Finnick. His thoughts had captured him to the point that he didn't even see the mammal walk up and stop right beside him. Finnick turned his head, frowning.

It was Nick. Nick, the fennec.

He looked similar to how he had a day ago–at least, his clothes did. The white, branded top was still on, the little flick of the sports logo printed in black on the left side of the shirt. He wore fresh grey sweatpants now instead of beige khakis. His fur was dark but equally clean. Up close, his features looked as though they could accommodate a wide, joking smile or a bright glint from his dark brown eyes. But, as Finnick looked at them, he saw a face that was the complete opposite.

He seemed to be looking out for something, some far of thought or idea that–if watched carefully enough–would appear in front of him. His mouth was flat and drawn, sapped of the ease that might have been able to inspire it into broad and confident shapes. He looked lost. Thoughtful and lost. What Finnick noticed the most, though, was that he had seemed normal, or at least acted normal a day ago, but something had changed. And, from the look of that cryptic expression, it had done so drastically.

"What?"

"We all have our defining moment," the fennec repeated. He took a small-sized cigarette out of a pocket and placed it in his mouth, but didn't light it.

"What?" Finnick said again, now scowling. "What in the damn hell you talkin' about? You followin' me?"

The other just looked at him and smiled. He seemed to have broken out of whatever ponderous process his mind had been running just for a moment to do so. It was a knowing smile. The kind Finnick didn't trust.

"Nah," he mumbled, part of his mouth closed over what Finnick guessed to be a Mammarlboro, "but you can walk with me if you want."

"What makes you think I'm doin' that?"

The other shrugged, and then he walked off, but not before saying, "You goin' to the park? That's where I'm headin'."

Finnick looked at him sideways, but the other was already off across the road and towards the entrance. His figure moved in and out of the fuzzy shadows of the trees on his left. Dark shapes danced over his white shirt, and the fur on his ear-tips glowed as if to the beat of a metronome; passing into the light, then out, then in again, then out. Finnick waited for just a second or two before marching quickly across the road–all the while with a deep frown on his face.

He hurried slightly, clearly not happy doing so, and caught up with Nick. The fennec. "What the hell you mean, 'defining'? You high?"

"What is your moment?" Nick asked. He looked right at Finnick.

"I don't give a damn what my 'moment' is. I don't even know what that means."

The other turned forward, once again with a knowing smile.

"Somethin' funny?" Finnick snapped. "Hey, I got a better question fennec: You followin' me?"

"I said 'Nah'. I mean it."

They kept pace with each other, but Finnick was starting to edge ahead. A shark ready to circle.

"Yeah, but who you think trust you or that answer? _Me_?" He gained a little more on Nick, who looked as if he was thinking too much to notice.

"I ain't askin' you to believe it, fennec. I'm jus' answerin' your question is all."

Then, after a few seconds, he looked at Finnick, at his blatantly mistrusting expression, at his tensed arms, and at his frown.

"That anger," he said. "It's that shield you use, isn't it?"

Then Finnick snapped and circled on him.

He grabbed Nick's shirt with two paws, pulled, and swung him round onto the nearby wall. The fennec hit it with a grunt, losing his cigarette in the process. Nearby mammals gave it no more than a concerned glance before moving on. Some didn't even stop.

Finnick clenched his teeth. His amber eyes bore into Nick's, pupils twitching about in seething anger, while the other fennec braced himself with two paws, both clasping Finnick's arms. Nick looked strangely remorseful. His dark brown eyes pierced Finnick's and never faltered.

"The fuck you know about a shield, huh?" Finnick hissed. He twisted his grip and pressed the other harder into the wall. The once creaseless shirt stretched and strained. "You think you know me, huh? You don't know shit, fennec. I don't like when people act as though they know me, cus' most of the time they don't know one damn thing."

Nick looked searchingly into Finnick's eyes. "I had a friend," he said. The same serenity on his face was weaved into his tone. It made Finnick scowl deeper and press harder. "He was like you."

" _Bullshit_. The hell you know what I'm 'like'? An' where's this 'friend' now, huh, fennec? You follow him 'round the place too?"

"He's gone."

Finnick faltered slightly after that, but only in expression. His body was still automatic, holding the other in place with a surprising amount of strength. It wasn't hard, though; 'Nick' wasn't even trying to fidget.

"He was a lot like you. He had your shield," he said, pondering over the words as he spoke them, "an' your anger. We rare, fennec. I don't forget one of our faces so when I saw you again I remembered. The card mammal, right? The dude with the tricks and the retro van. I mean, what predator tries for three-card by themselves? It's rare, but I seen it before. Stubborn, right?" He sighed and looked back up. "So I thought a while about it."

"An' you followed me to make sure."

The other smiled for the third time. "Fennec, if I tell you it's pure coincidence, you won't believe me, won't you? You ain't that type. To you, it's all predestined, all motivated."

Finnick loosened his grip and stepped back. He was still scowling and still had his arms bent at the elbows. "The hell you know what I'm like?" He repeated.

"I said that we rare, fennec. I know us. When you in such a small group, you learn its types pretty quick, right?"

"Your 'friend'," Finnick said, "you learn his type?"

"Yeah, I did. I knew him since he was young. Wiley. A red fox. Real nice guy, one you can trust, y'know. An' I mean really trust."

A breeze picked up for a moment, filling the silence that Nick left in his wake. It whistled through, shaking the fur and fraying ends of both of the fennecs. Finnick was rock solid. He stood still, anger transgressed to mistrust; frenzied eyes brought down to suspicion. Mammals walked by, cars passed, and the city moved, but not between the two foxes.

"Of course, there was this wall you had to break down to get to know him," Nick said. "Got him to trust me after a pretty damn long time, but he came around. It was after a practice he'd had. He loved basketball. He played all the time, an' while I sat in the gym waitin' for some classmate I've forgotten to shove off with, I stayed an' talked to him. 'What shoes you got on?', 'What's yo' favourite player?', 'You think the Zealots need to tank a season an' get some picks, or buy what they can an' try for the conference finals?' Y'know, all that." He paused. "He weren't expressive. Real quiet type. Only gave me a stare the first few times, cus' we ain't spoken before that."

He went to move, causing Finnick to flinch and tense up. Nick, the fennec, froze. He put his paws up defensively and moved once again, this time much slower. He bent down onto one knee, reached down and picked up the unlit cigarette, then rose again.

"But…that was okay," he began again, "because we both loved the game so much. He was good, an' he knew it. Athletic mammal. Played mid-leagues. Tall-ass tigers an' all around him, but he weren't scared. He was a slashin' guard. You know? The real brave type like Al Ifurson or Revan Rondo."

Finnick didn't know, but he kept quiet.

"On track to the MBA, for sure–or at least college fame. But then he got in some nasty-ass accident." He scratched the back of his head and looked down. "I remember damn-near every hour of that day. They'd won a back to back, an' Wiley an' a teammate of his were carpoolin' near here. His brother was drivin'–Pete, was his name." He broke off and breathed out slowly, frowning. "…I always wish that when I tell this, I could say that Pete was juiced, or on nip, or that he was ploughin' around the streets like an' idiot. But he weren't." He paused again.

He moved but Finnick didn't tense. Nick, the fennec, began to walk slowly towards the entry of the park. He passed in and out of the shadows of trees again, but this time between higher intervals. The metronome was on, only at a slower pace. Finnick caught up with him.

"He weren't," Nick said again. "He was drivin' all calm. Then– _bang_." The 'bang' was no more than a murmur. "Some van comes in an' smashes the car. Late night speeder. Sirens were quick on the scene. Mammal in the van was okay an' had the decency to stop an' call an ambulance, but before they got there, he was gone. So Wiley an' the other two get carted off to Hospital. But-" He hesitated, frowning even deeper now. "But the hospital fucked it up."

Finnick looked at Nick.

"Pete, Wiley's brother, got the wrong dose. A kind of class-A rhino tranq'. He died–peacefully in his sleep. But, he still died when he should've lived. Wiley an' his other friend in the car were okay." Then he shook his head. "But Wiley weren't. Not really. The doctor who was supposed to be on-call—sheep by the name of Mr Ferrell—brought all his lawyers along, even to the first damn meeting. Made it clear he didn't want to take the consequences. Legal team argued 'machine malfunction' instead of neglect like it _should've_ been, and he passed on all charges. The sheep acted all sympathetic, but you could see it in his eyes–the way they glossed over with disinterest whenever he finished delivering a statement. He didn't give a shit."

He composed himself once more, eyes pulling out of the dark and endless anger they'd been submerged in.

"School held a huge thing, an' mournin' felt like it went on the entire year, but it never stopped for Wiley. He quit playin', of course."

They got close to the wide path leading into the park, then stopped and stood still. The light was beginning to turn golden now, the sun a fiery ball on the horizon. Shadows were long and slanted. Two identical foxes stood at the feet of Nick and Finnick, only pitch-black and taller, thinner. Nick carried on with purpose.

"Then he turned real quiet. Bought some damn car, and then it was him an' that forever. He worked part-time at a load of dead-end jobs but didn't have a place. Homeless; his car was his home. Everyone thought it would be a phase, an'–y'know–it was. Cus', after awhile he stopped workin' as well. I'd ask him about every now an' then, askin' him what he want's in life–what he needs. But, I-I couldn't make him listen. I tried too."

He looked down at his feet and smiled ruefully.

"But he was a tough guy," he murmured. His voice picked back up to normal volume. "Then he was jus' gone. One day, after I meet him an' asked him what he wanted, really wanted–cus' it couldn't have _jus'_ been money like he always said it was. I asked him, 'what does money have to do with it anyway?' Then he was gone. I think he just drove off, an' out."

"Where?" Finnick asked. His voice was quiet, and his expression muted. The frown, transitioning from anger to mistrust, now only looked thoughtful.

"West." Nick sighed, scratching the back of one of his ears. "West. Drove, and ain't stopped since. So that's why–when I saw you–I asked you that fennec. 'What is your defining moment?' Cus' for Wiley it was the crash. You probably know what yours is."

Then he turned. He put the cigarette in his mouth and cupped his hands over a lighter. Smoke trailed him as he walked away.

"Good luck, Nick," Finnick called.

The other turned and frowned. "Who?"

He walked off. Finnick found his eyes glued to him again. In the brilliant orange light, the back of the fennec passed underneath dark shadows as if to a metronome beat; out, then in shade, then finally out again.

 **…**

Finnick pressed the cash return button again, this time a little harder.

Nothing came out. He pressed it again.

The little blue button was mocking still him. His last cents ebbed away into the cruel metal box, now lost forever. Finnick–while wearing a frown, of course–slammed the button one more time. Nothing.

He stepped back, disbelieving. The park surrounded him: grass, trees, and benches. Finnick registered none of it. He just stood and stared at the machine.

Then he stepped forward again, gripped the side of the box for balance, picked up the receiver and slammed it back down onto the holster. He heard a snapping sound and in the instant of contact was unsure whether it was plastic or bone. When he drew back, though, his paw was still intact, and part of the receiver was hanging off by a few multicoloured wires. He turned and walked off.

 _Don't take the long way out_ , his shield said. Don't walk past all the memories.

But, Finnick, with the weight of the fennec's story on his mind and the content of the dream, buckled. He took the easy way out–which, funnily enough, was the long way round.

The sun sat on the horizon now, chased slowly into retreat by blue darkness. Lights had flickered on but it was still early and they made little impact, only serving as disparate small spotlights suspended above the path. The city still moved, but the park was empty. Finnick took that as a good sign. A good one among many bad ones.

He was on the path to east exit, round the tree and the metal play equipment. Finnick, trudging by now, turned and looked at a small bench on the border of the path. He saw three fennec foxes, all smaller than him by a few inches, lounging on it. All of them were still in school, and all of them were waiting.

 _"You get the memo?"_

 _"Course, Dad's not comin' until six-thirty now. Damn typical."_

 _"Locke!" She snaps, annoyed at the curse. Watch your mouth. She always did that._

 _"Yeah–'darn'. My bad, my bad." He looks up, then around, and sighs. "Jus' might as well live here, right?"_

 _Right_ , Finnick thought. The foxes, with their bags and June summer sun, all disappeared.

Finnick moved on.

It was slow progress. Hesitant progress. Thoughts and conflicts rattled in his mind. He wasn't sure if he'd actually woken up, that this was one of those 'lurid' or 'lucid' dreams Maria once described. They always did seem so real.

Plan B arrived, unwelcome and intrusive, into his thoughts. _West_ , Finnick thought. Just as Wiley had done. Always following in the footsteps of the bigger foxes.

He turned and looked at the playground. It was all mostly wooden, apart from a few scratched metal slides and structures. Multi-coloured, but faded. They looked pragmatic and built to last, but forgotten. Doubtless, there was a better one a block away. It looked as though the only attention it received was of the fleeting kind, never permanent. One short slide, one happy swing, then it was alone again. He saw the same three fennecs in the playground, but younger, and, this time, separated. Something had broken them up.

 _"That's another time you pushed Locke, Finnick!"_

 _Locke is upset and bites back tears. Finnick thinks he's a wimp. "You're a wimp!" He shouts._

 _"And you're nasty!" Locke shouts back. The dam brakes and the tears fall. She rubs his back slowly, calming him; quieting him. She turns to Finnick and gives him a look that even dad can't match._

 _He tries to, much, much later when she tells dad and dad gets angry. He is late again. Very late. Finnick wonders why adults are late so much_.

Finnick moved on.

He had a full tank of gas, enough to last a solid few days of driving. Food? On the road, there would be some. Possibly. Who knew? Out there, he might even find Xanadu.

Plan B was persuasive, using a word like that to draw him in. He shelved it as if shelving an armed nuclear device–as in nervously. As in terrified.

They got shorter now. Snapshots, if that. On the path leading to the bridge, he saw them all through their life. Locke, turning to look at him–angry, annoyed, but still with a hint of humour on his face. Her, with the usual radiant energy, pushing him or laughing at him. Finnick looked to his right, across the main path and to the east side of the park. He liked this one.

Three of them now, all older and funnier, stood in the space. Finnick had a beer crate in his paw; they had a new white-and-red checked picnic blanket on the grass. It could've been something right out of those Zootopia Promo videos, where prey mammals with beaming white plastic smiles settle down for a good old bit of "rest and relaxation in one of Zootopia's many beautiful parks!" Except none of them were prey, and their smiles had a genuine freedom to them. Anything but plastic.

 _She's there, as well as not-the-fennec-Nick and Locke. He puts the case down, they cheer, and they toast Finnick because, oh boy, can he play and they know it. On track to a record deal_ – _or at least local fame._

 _There's conversation, but time lost the happy words. All he needs is the feeling, though. Security. The knowledge–assured and true–that today is beautiful and the future is too._

He turned and walked to the bridge.

It was a nice structure, built more for novelty than practicality. The middle was slightly arched, the entirety of it made out of panelled wood that blended with the green and bark surrounding it. It was narrow, but the families liked to take their little ones here and hoist them up over the edge so they could see their murky reflection below. For the first time in a while, Finnick thought of Vlad and his little _detenysh_ , Revvy. He could see him and her, Vlad with an easy smile that promised a bright tomorrow, Revvy with excited Russian shouting that guaranteed the same, standing on the arch. Revvy would, of course, beg to be given the view. Vlad would (of course) oblige, taking her on his massive shoulders and leaning over the railing. She would laugh, and he would laugh, and they would probably keep looking at their muddier white and black snow leopard reflections until Revy would announce, " _mne skuchno!"_ ('I'm bored!')

Just as sudden as it appeared, the image faded, replaced by one Finnick didn't like nearly as much.

 _He see's not-the-fennec-Nick and Locke leaning against the edges of the bridge like two stationed guards barring entry. Except they're both leaning back, grave and dazed in their own way, and the smaller one is crying. She's not here, and that's the worst part._

 _Locke sniffs. Finnick doesn't think he was a wimp this time. He feels like crying too. He already misses her._

 _"You know I'm gonna be here for ya', tough guy?" not-crying-now-Nick says. "I promise I am."_

 _Locke sniffs once more. A single tear rolls down out of his eye, but he wipes it before it escapes. He doesn't say much, but it's not like he needs to._

 _There is more conversation, but Finnick can barely hear it. All he registers is the feeling, then and now. Grief. The pain–endless and unbearable–that today would be his defining moment. His miserable, aching moment._

Finnick hated that one.

He leant against the side of the bridge, not on the top but on one of the wooden slats that made the railing. He thought of Vlad again, of how they talked in the car lot. He felt like the shell of somebody else. He was merely a go-between, and somewhere he'd step out of this tiny frame and give it to someone braver. Or was that what he wanted to believe? He knew there was no difference.

' _What's money got to do with it?_ ' He thought for no reason at all.

"Not enough," Finnick said aloud.

Then he saw the boats.

Well, maybe 'boat' was an overstatement, Finnick thought. They were paper, fragile and thin, and they drifted uncertainly across the pond below. He heard a shout and looked up. Three kids, a rhino calf, a lamb, and a cheetah cub stood at one end, encouraging their flimsy ships not to get lost at sea. Finnick didn't fare their chances. The sheep's and the rhino's appeared to be ahead, at least from their louder disposition, while the cheetah's was only limping behind. The cub waited, shifting his balance and leaning as if body movement alone could control the direction of the boat. Before his was even past the halfway point, though, the other two's had sailed straight under the bridge. They sprinted around the bridge to the other side, out of sight from the cheetah. He got impatient.

He was lost at sea, or at least his tiny paper ship was, and his friends were gone. Why go it alone? He shifted his feet a little more, losing a casual smile and replacing it with a look of concern to get back to the other two. A gust of wind picked up, blowing his boat sharply across the pond and into a few nearby reeds. The cheetah waited for a few seconds then rocketed off out of sight and towards his friends.

Dumb cub, Finnick thought. If only he'd waited.

Then he left, walked down the narrow wooden bridge and out of the park.

Finnick didn't see the other fennec walk over to the side of the pond after he had gone. He had a cigarette in his mouth, sports gear on, and a tired gaze. But, he wasn't Nick, the fennec. No, his fur was too light, his eyes a different shade of brown. He looked a lot like Finnick.

He stepped over to the boat, stuck out a foot towards it, and nudged it gently back into stream

Then he moved on.

 **…**

 _West_ , Finnick thought again.

He built the route in his head; eastbound towards Fleet Street, then northbound onto the main roads, then around the east side of the rainforest district, then onto to the highway–and out. Even the idea of it scared Finnick.

That's why he tried not to think about it.

Just _drive_ , he told himself. Just drive, then the mind–with all its damn feelings and memories–can catch up with him later. His shield was in control now as he sat with two paws on the wheel. His eyes were dead, holding a blank stare at nothing. The shield told him to ignore the event that it was and forget that everything he'd see on his way out would be the last time doing so.

It was so powerful now that it even convinced him to ignore giving a final goodbye to Maria, Leo, and Rhys–the Mane Bar. It convinced him to ignore Revy and Vlad.

Even Locke.

But that was the plan, the point. The Plan B. Ignore, bite back and just _drive_.

Against all sense, all forewarning, all feeling, Finnick decided that–in that moment–plan B was a good idea.

He sighed, features granite, and popped open the glove box, reaching inside for the parking ticket so he could rip it up now and forget about it later. He didn't want anything else from the city following him around. Not when he was leaving it for good. But his paws caught something harder. Card. He frowned, then grabbed it by one of the corners and pulled. It was still cumbersome to hold, a little creased and bent, but still readable.

Across the front of the postcard were the words 'Welcome to luxury', and behind that a grand dining hall with cloth tables, fancy seats, a sidebar, and even a glimmering chandelier. Vlad's business.

Finnick regarded it with a kind of subtle curiosity, but only on the surface. Because, underneath this, below the shielded exterior, his mind was in turmoil.

* * *

 **Big thanks to hmweasley and** **iTzDELTA for beta reading.**


	6. Six

**SIX**

A square now stood in front of Finnick. It was a featureless one, made up of glistening cobbled bricks smoothed to resemble cleaned black ice. Water cased them, filled their gaps, and reflected varying shades of colours across the ground. Neon ice. It almost looked that way, apart the occasional piece of trash plastered into the surface by feet and rain.

The two buildings on the left and right were low, only a few stories, but large in area. Decorative gothic stonework covered every window, doorframe and balcony. The architecture was a far cry from the edgeless glass towers at the centre of Zootopia.

But, this wasn't the centre of Zootopia.

It was the outskirts of savannah central, closest to the border with the rainforest district than anything else. Tucked away in a foreign quarter, behind the inter-city highway and under a near-permanent sheen of rain and drizzle that rolled in from the canopy, Vyborg Square stood quietly in the dark.

Finnick remembered seeing a picture that Vlad had once shown him, a place in the capital of the huge country that he'd come from. What was it? Red Square? It had those grand, official-looking buildings with cobblestone front lawns, the kind where you can get lost for days if you don't have suited mammals guiding you through. The restaurant that stood opposite Finnick reminded him of that. In fact, the whole square seemed like a slice of that place – albeit on a much smaller scale.

The restaurant was huge, but not tall. It _felt_ big, felt grand. That was probably down to the towers that capped many of the roofs off, or the large flagpoles flying drooping colours outside. The brick was a kind of faded maroon, and the light from the windows was golden. It had a cover over the entrance that was made of silver-coloured metal and clear, cleaned glass that Finnick had seen in front of the classy five-star hotels in downtown. A swirly neon sign on the main structure of the building read _Khishchnik Dvorets_ in an almost ineligible handwritten font. Displayed below that were five proud glowing stars.

Finnick clicked his claws against his wheel. He'd told himself that he just wanted to look at it, just get one look before leaving. He knew it had been a mistake. He should've kept driving. Why didn't he listen?

 _Drive_. That was all he needed to do.

The lights inside the van were off, as was the engine, and the ghostly colours from outside illuminated Finnick's hard features. They reflected off the wet stone and traced deep lines.

He considered the last few days, and how every single one of them contained failure. He thought about Nick, about Locke, about her, and about money. Because that was the real question, wasn't it?

Then Finnick realised how much he despised thinking, and tried not to. This time it was easy. He threw open the door and hopped out onto the cold stone, then pushed it shut and turned to look at the restaurant. Outside, everything was so much more tangible. The air was colder, night smell stronger. The buildings were larger.

His choice seemed that much more real.

* * *

 **Thanks again to hmweasley and iTzDELTA for betaing this chapter.**

* * *

 **END OF PART ONE**


	7. Seven

**SEVEN**

A suited bear in a white shirt and black tuxedo pants stood by a small registry form. He clasped his paws behind his back, and when Finnick looked up, old eyes stared back down. They were an almost endless brown.

He looked at Finnick. "This way." His voice was a cello plucked at the lowest note, capped with Russian reverb. He turned and pushed the two wooden doors open, leading Finnick through without suggestion.

What greater hypothetical was there than time travel? To skate through history, not only observing but participating in what had come before. The details would matter; all the little things that change so very quietly and cleverly over the years to the point that life becomes different between generations and no single reason stands out. On the rare occasions where Finnick's mind was void of practical concerns, and the dusty box of imagination was crowbarred open, he thought of what he would go back and see. Something recent, nothing too early. One legendary live set, one rock star funeral. One missed opportunity – just to watch, of course. He always had one final thought, to no change anything. It made no sense. Why adjust history? He saw no point in it, no gain.

Following the bear through the doors of the lobby and into the restaurant was a more realistic form of time travel.

The dining hall, with an operatically high ceiling and floor space to challenge the square outside, captured some details of the past. Details of a long-gone medieval era where the rich not only ignored the poor but managed to negate their existence altogether. Silk covered the tables, gilded mahogany rich in colour and texture formed the chairs, huge paintings purely Sistine in their design wrapped around the walls, and reflected through all of the silverware, wine glasses and bar taps was a kind of piercing gold that was warming just to look at. How could poverty exist with a room like this?

The bear led Finnick down a short staircase and towards a corner of the restaurant where there was a small table set for two. Wordlessly, he pulled the chair, gave an efficient nod, then left. Finnick climbed up.

It wasn't a matter of feeling; he simply _was_ underdressed. Suits surrounded him. People that went to these places knew dinner dress. They knew dinner code, too. Between a delicate sip of wine or a surgical extraction of taste from beautifully arranged meals, the right social cues were met, jokes timed well, and polite laughs abundant. Finnick was almost more impressed with the mammals around him than the room. They held a vision of time travel not as a fantasy but as a possibility, as if enough rich friends and decadence could really, actually, transport them back to the past – or at least something close to it. Anything to make them real, authentic aristocrats.

Finnick picked up the cloth on his plate and put it to one side. Gold trimmed the porcelain, and when Finnick looked at it, a ghostly version of himself stared back.

"Order, _ser_?"

Finnick turned to the waiter.

"Vlad?"

The tiger looked strange in formal wear. He had the traditional outfit; black slacks, long white shirtsleeve and black waistcoat, and a more untraditional Band-Aid still plastered to the nose. His expression was sharpened and severe, held under a veneer of professionalism the bear had carried like a boulder on his back. The difference between Vlad and the bear, though, were the blue eyes. They poked out from behind his features like a shy child and smiled when his mouth did not. Whatever happened, whatever place he was in, however he was dressed, Vlad's gaze still promised the world.

"No," he said, "Just the waiter."

"Just the waiter?"

" _Da_." His eyes glinted. "I knew you'd come."

Finnick took his gaze away and picked up the menu. He flicked through it. The prices were predictable but no less incredible. Numbers jumped out like death statistics on a headline. Finnick said, "This' gonna be tricky, ain't it."

"It does not have to be. Take my recommendation."

Finnick put the menu down.

"Wait around a while," Vlad said, "until everyone is gone. Then? Who knows, ah? Maybe you'll meet the panther."

Finnick said nothing, searching Vlad's eyes. This time, they gave nothing away.

"Also, the shrimp platter is delicious. That would be to your liking, _da_?"

Finnick nodded towards the menu. "Yeah, but-"

"All expenses covered, of course. Consider it a gift." He collected the menu from the table and tucked it under his arm. Finnick wondered if there was any other way to consider it. "Enjoy your meal, _moy drug_."

As he walked away, he had the grin of a thief hiding in plain sight. His eyes gleamed when he looked at Finnick as if they were already partners in crime.

 **…**

There was a chandelier, too. An up-ended frozen fountain, it hung, glistening, and as light reflected through the individual drops of glass the room itself seemed to shine through it. Colour was magnified.

Finnick picked at a plate of neatly arranged prawns. Time did not move in the restaurant. Romantic as the past was, it preferred to be obstinate rather than helpful. How long had it been? There were no clocks, and he didn't wear the thousand-dollar watches that others did around him. He had seen Vlad stride around tables with meals and collect orders as he went, but the tiger never looked his way. He was good. Easy conversation with some of the prey, laughs shared with glowing eyes. Swift, controlled movements with plates in his paws. None of the pensiveness of a typical waiter. He almost had the confidence of an owner. Finnick snapped the head off a prawn. It crunched with an expulsion of steam. He ate and waited.

The barman was watching him. Finnick felt his eyes from the across the room. He was a wolf, shorter than average, with a darker grey coat. His movements were minimal, only employing one paw at a time whenever he could. Exchanges with patrons were minimal too: a smile and a nod, or a compliment for selecting the most expensive wine – but nothing more. Wealthy mammals didn't want to notice the staff anyway. The wolf pulled down on the tap, shaved excess cream delicately off and placed the full glass on the bar surface. Over it, Finnick met his eyes for just a second. He had the kind of intelligent face that eluded age.

He gave a slight tilt of his head to Finnick, expression almost disappointed. It was as if Finnick was a target who had tripped and fell head-over-heels into a scope. There was no challenge in a mutual hunt. How much did he know? Finnick guessed the wolf was thinking the same.

Vlad was right. The prawn was delicious. Finnick's stomach took it greedily, body admitting defeat even when his mind would not.

"My friends. And patrons, of course. We must include everyone who visits. I welcome you all to _Kishchinik Dvortes_ , and hope you have an enjoyable evening."

A panther occupied the small platform opposite Finnick on the furthermost wall. He had an unbuttoned grey suit on with a maroon shirt, but no waistcoat. The billionaire look. A mic stand stood in front of him. The usual din of conversation and cutlery died away.

"Some of you may think: 'Who is this panther on stage?'" A polite laugh rolled through. Everybody, of course, knew who he was. Finnick felt more isolated than usual.

"Well," he continued, "what's important is that he's glad you're here, glad you're dining with us today. The cook thanks you, my staff thank you, and, most of all, I thank you. My surprise visits are always heart-warming. The branches that I invest in are numerous, seemingly uncountable at times. They're all around the city, around the country. I shake paws with mammals I have great respect for, sign papers I hope I've read thoroughly enough to enjoy." He smiled and waited for the collective chuckle to pass. "And working, of course, with all my investments, all my investors. I have quite a few. _However_ , this one holds a special place in my heart. Co-operation is the root of business, of course, but never has a project felt so personal to me.

"When we began work here thirty years ago, I pulled from my own memories of the grandest buildings in my home country. _Belyy Dom_ , The Winter Palace, other relics of romanticism. Placed here, what would they look like? What would they feel like? Would someone step through and sense the history, or would they be captured by an entirely new allure altogether? I asked myself this and asked my dearly departed friend Sir Renko the same. An architect, more of an artist, he drew plans for me that you would never believe: beautifully symmetrical drawings that looked close to what you see around you. Quite unlike most artists, he was an optimist. He always drew for things bigger than himself. But, then again, he was eccentric, which is a great deal like most artists. The blend was potent, should we call it that.

"I'll always remember him, the times when he burst into board meetings completely uninvited. _Yes,_ it is true, it is true. I distinctly remember one meeting many years ago. I sat beside the CEO of _Interclaw_ – a very sombre mammal – who was not exactly akin to Slavic humour. We were talking professionally around figures and discrepancies and such when I get a call from Renko to my personal phone. Now at that point, he was quite sick, so I felt I had to answer whenever he called. I politely excused myself." He mimicked a phone to his ear. "'Yes, quickly what is it?' then Renko says, ' _My friend! Stay where you are! Where are you?_ '"

The impression drew on a thick accent and smiles on every table.

"'In a meeting, what is it?' He is breathing very deeply down the phone to me now. ' _Good! Stay there!'_ Then hangs up. The CEO was very unimpressed. I turn back and sit down, and after about ten minutes, just when I begin to push the call out of my mind, Renko practically falls through the doors and throws bundles of rolled paper proudly onto a silenced table. He shouted, in English, I might add, _'Fuck your mother, this is a breakthrough!'"_

Laughter rolled up and down the room. The panther looked on and grinned in triumph. "Yes, _yes_. I remember the shocked faces. The aftermath was certainly interesting. Many people got up at once. You must understand, 'Fuck your mother' is not used as an insulting phrase where I'm from, merely an expression of disbelief. In English, the phrase takes on a… _different_ tone. Renko, unfortunately, had no time to explain this to the CEO, but what I lost in business I gained in respect for my friend. I did look at the papers, by the way. They were _incredible_ ; breakthrough was an understatement.

"He died before completion, rest his soul, leaving only plans and ghosts of ideas in his wake. Like so many other great artists, his work was only appreciated by the masses after his departure. It seems to be a fate of the profession. I do hope he would have been as proud as I am. But I digress." He smiled, showing perfect, almost pearlescent teeth. "Because we must cherish the now! Along to help you with that task is my excellent pianist Mishel, please be as kind to her as you have been to me, _blagodaryu_ to you all!" He finished with volume over the rousing applause, smiled and clapped the new arrival on-stage.

A female lynx, sage in both eyes and movement, sat politely and bowed while the cheer began to subside. He fur was a perfectly symmetrical white, black and muddy orange pattern, distinctive ear tips pruned and dark. She wore a cream shirt tucked into jet-black slacks. Under the thunder of applause, the panther disappeared, and Mishel readied herself. When it was silent, and without introduction, she began to play.

Navigation. That was always the best word Finnick had described it with. Pragmatism preferred less imaginative metaphors, and what one was more practical? Finnick drove his van. The experiences were similar. Playing an instrument _was_ a method of navigation. Weaving through notes and expression with proper paw-eye coordination. If you were lost, it was easy to tell. Stopping and asking for directions stifled in both travel and play. But, when you took the helm and honestly knew the way, it almost seemed inherent – like fate. You felt as though you were always meant to be here, playing. You knew all the streets; it was home. Mishel certainly knew hers.

The lynx's paws were an extension of her mind, yet so effortless that it could have been a recorded track. She dived into some classical piece that Finnick couldn't name, sorting her way through rhythm like a rally driver on residential roads. Finnick listened carefully to it. There was honesty in music.

With the piano time moved a little faster, sweeping the minutes away with each keystroke. Then Mishel got up, bowed under applause, and left. Finnick waited.

An hour or two fell by unannounced. It was slow at first, with only a few mammals shaking paws with each other and smiling before gliding up the steps and out into the dark square. Then whole tables left – all after extended periods of discussion and drinks, of course. All of them, from the sheep to the elk and everyone in-between, had the slightly dazed, star-struck look controlled into a socially acceptable smile as they left. They had seen _the_ panther. Through those expressions, Finnick realised how renowned the speaker was. Stories of architects, of possession boiled down to a simple passion, and a grand piano to play him out? The evidence was clear. Finnick wondered how he would treat a fox.

Vlad had come over and taken Finnick's cleaned plate away, and when the tiger had asked for drinks received only a request for water. Surprisingly, it was free. It was more to quell his scratchy throat than anything. He didn't need alcohol. He needed focus. The last six mammals in the restaurant, excluding Finnick and the bartender, spoke in hushed tones as if they had been upgraded into an exclusive club. Three sat together at a table stocked with wine, two sat at a bar and talked. These were the true believers, the last few to hold onto a dying era while the rest of the city submitted to it and slept. Finnick wondered what they thought when they shot him the occasional glance. Probably dismissive thoughts. He rubbed his eyes and waited until they left.

Then it was just him. He half expected a bag over his head. Why not? They had him alone, isolated, and off-guard. The wolf behind the bar cleaned a few glasses and stacked them away, never once looking over. Finnick desperately needed to shake his legs and get up, but paranoia bound them. He had no gauge of what these mammals were like, how they would react. He stayed still and drummed the table with his claws. The silence of the restaurant was a patron in itself. It sat right next to Finnick, waiting expectantly. _Say something, do something,_ it said. Finnick drummed faster.

Then the door opened. Finnick's eyes darted upwards. Voices rolled in, and three mammals made easy, meaningful progress as they walked down. A grey wolf, Siberian tiger, and another much darker wolf made their way around tables and sat down at the bar. The tiger and the grey wolf seemed to be in a close conversation, too quiet for Finnick to pick out, while the other wolf sat a few seats away and kept silent. The tiger was white, much brighter than Vlad, and slightly smaller too. He had the same compact frame but wore a peacoat jacket over a grey jumper and black jeans, sitting straight and leaning in to listen when the other spoke. He did so like an off-duty detective, with the same hidden professionalism peeking through in every odd head turn or inviting gaze. Intelligent, Finnick thought. Not a good mark; too smart for a hustle. Not someone who would just walk away, but someone who would play the scheme into his own paws purely for the satisfaction of being two steps ahead. The darker wolf was smaller, wrapped up in a colourful _Zealot's_ _Basketball_ jacket and grey slacks. He looked young. The way he moved and hunched over the bar suggested a guarded silence. He nursed a beer bottle and drank sparingly. The grey wolf in the middle was the odd one out.

He had a leather jacket that was almost a crimson shade of maroon as if he had just cast the thing in dye not five minutes ago. His slate jeans were belted loosely but hugged his legs. He sat forward, leant back, twisted his wrists and flexed his neck at small intervals. His movement suggested impatience, but his face, when Finnick caught brief glimpses of it, spoke of control. Every now and then, he smiled at the tiger. The grin was never matched and on a different wavelength as though, under a different light, you would see meaning where there was none before. He didn't order anything. One moment, after barking out a sharp laugh, he turned, and his eyes found Finnick. He grinned, gaze dark and empty. When Finnick looked back, it was like trying to find a face in a cave. He turned away.

Vlad had sat down opposite him. "You enjoy your meal?"

Finnick nodded. Behind Vlad, the brown bear at the front and a huge polar bear stood on either side of a door. The bear still had the uniform of a door attendant, but the polar bear donned a white, near-spotless chief's apron. Something in his eyes, in the way he spoke confidently and with eager gesticulations, told Finnick he was the head of the kitchen. They turned to each other and talked casually, two guards bored with silent duty. Vlad caught Finnick's gaze.

"You'll learn the names, don't worry," he said.

Finnick wasn't worried about the names. He stole a glance at the bar, then turned back. Red Jacket was watching him.

Vlad said, "Ignore that one, he likes to scare people."

"He ain't doin' a good job."

"I'm sure."

"What's happenin', Vlad? What am I waitin' for? This a cult meetin' or some shit?"

"Patience is all that is needed. I understand the wait has been long, but he will come soon enough."

Finnick ground his teeth. He wondered if they saw a coward, or if it was just him. The wolf looked as though he could smell it. He tried to place his mind elsewhere. "How's Revy?"

Vlad smiled, and his eyes lit up.

The guarded door opened. The two bears seemed to straighten just a little, and Vlad turned. The mammals at the bar went silent. Mishel, the lynx who played earlier, walked out first, striding as if she was completely alone in the restaurant. Behind her, the panther followed. Off the stage, he moved with a purpose: not only was the restaurant undoubtedly his but the entire block along with it. His wealth seemed to give assurance to each step, each day, and, in the restaurant with the others, it almost gave him impunity.

Almost. Red Jacket started drumming on the bar, smashing with his paws to create a rhythmic introduction. The panther looked over and sighed. He had the boredom of an uncaring parent seeing their delinquent child misbehave once again. Mishel rounded on the wolf.

"Silence!"

He stopped but still smiled.

The panther sat down at a table in the centre of the restaurant. Vlad got up and motioned for Finnick to do the same. His legs seemed to click back into place as he walked. Vlad sat down on one side of the table, and the panther was opposite. Someone had placed a drink in his paw. He sipped with delicacy as Finnick sat down.

Everything coasted at a speed he desired. If he was old, it didn't show. His black fur had the richness of oil, making yellow irises stand out like two suns in a void. There was a total elusiveness to them, a thing of so many layers that it looked exhausting to maintain. Yet he seemed to find it easy.

"Evening, Finnick." His accent peaked slightly, a small indulgence when out of the spotlight. "You understand the wait, of course. Vlad promised me you'd be patient."

"I passed the first test?"

He smiled. Though small, it teased at a much wider truth. "If you want to call it that. Before introductions, I must ask you to lift your shirt and turn around." He took a sip. "A precaution, you understand."

Finnick hesitated for only a moment, then obligingly stood up on the chair and lifted his shirt. A wire was archaic, and Finnick was confident that they prepared for more than just that, but he spun all the same and pointedly ignored looking at the wolf. He sat back down.

Reassured, the panther nodded. "Arkady Clint Kishchinik," he said by way of formal introduction. "Would it be true to assume you already know who I am?"

"No."

Arkady pondered this as a strangely foreign concept and shrugged. "Well, that's probably for the best. I will get straight to it, as it is late and we both want to see this night end with a purpose. Vlad may have already discussed the offer with you, but I want to make sure you understand exactly what you'll be doing. It's a simple service, really: listen to the directions we give you, drive there, and then leave the rest to your ride along. 'Dead Drops' as they're often called. Dangers should be minimal, and we're not asking you to hunt these down without guidance. There will always be someone with you who knows what to look for. Very simple, you understand? Just drive. We'll handle the rest."

He put the drink down.

"The packages will be handled by the ride along only and will not be opened. That is not your job. Vlad here has told me a great deal about your knowledge of the streets in the city. Hopefully, that holds true. We'll need you to know some of the darker corners of Zootopia, places where the officials don't even go. You know them?"

"I was born in them."

"Poetic. The packages are always small, so storage space won't be an issue. And now for the money," he sighed."The pay is non-negotiable, I'm afraid. One hundred dollars for each delivery, and a three hundred dollar retainer on Fridays if you work during the week. Hazard pay will be available soon. Straight cash is easier for both of us."

Arkady sensed hesitancy from Finnick. "Non-negotiable," he repeated. "This is not to say the pay will not rise at all." He looked away in search of a clearer term for a slower mammal. "Think of it, from my standpoint, as an investment. I, of course, want to make a return in the long run. And loyalty, of course, has its own rewards." He picked up the drink again. "My turn to be poetic."

It was more than he usually earned. Wasn't it? Fixed rates were never part of Finnick's pay. He supposed this is where a tax registry might be useful. Or papers of any kind. Did the restaurant have a union? He wondered if he could press for more.

But it was enough. It was what Finnick needed, and Arkady knew it. At a disadvantage such as this, being paid anything close to the minimum wage was probably a miracle, Finnick thought. Probably. More importantly, it was familiar ground. Straight cash. Driving. Maybe a few less costumes, but the script was still the same. This was the part where he wholeheartedly agreed.

Instead, he tested the water. "An' what happens if I walk out of here now?"

Arkady smiled. The wolf in the red jacket audibly chuckled. Vlad seemed to tighten a little with anxiety beside him as if he had just seen Revy walk into the room.

"I don't think that would be an excellent idea, personally," Arkady said. "Mishel, your take?"

The lynx sat apart from the others at a table just in Finnick's periphery. "Terrible," she said.

"Needless to say," Arkady said, "that would not be wise. But I think the pay is fair, of course. I discussed it with Vlad, and he agrees."

Vlad nodded.

"A practical offer for a practical fennec. You can start as soon as tomorrow, and we'll make sure to sort everything out. It's late now. The mammals in the room here want to be gone as quickly as possible. Introductions with them will have to come later. But, Vlad does have one task he needs help with before you go. _Dobroy nochi_ , Finnick." Arkady finished with the face of a labourer satisfied at dirty work done efficiently. There was no room left for discussion. The best strategy.

There suddenly seemed to be no room left for Finnick either. Vlad got up and strode to the stairs. Talk continued between the two bears and the two mammals at the bar, but most of the others were silent. The bears spoke Russian, using guttural tones that seemed to emanate from somewhere below the throat. Arkady and Mishel were silent. Finnick got up.

He could feel the wolf watching him all the way up the stairs and into the embrace of the night.

Outside, the city set back in and the past disappeared. The square was black now, bordered by the three buildings that were still looming, watching. The windows were eyes set in darkness, and beyond them, the skyline was traced against a glow. Over a few apartments to the east and towards the trees of the rainforest, the night was so total it was a being in itself. A great giant, shifting and turning in its sleep, almost as if a loud enough shout or stone thrown in its direction would wake it. Finnick trudged through puddles, not willing to look down at his own reflection. Vlad, still dressed in the white shirt, strode a little further ahead. Smoke from a newly lit cigarette trailed him. The only vehicle now left along the edge of the square was Finnick's van, a drop of orange in a deep vat of black. The night smelled clean, the traffic a faint yet omnipresent hum.

Finnick caught up to Vlad, and they walked together in silence.

"You did well," Vlad said.

"Did I? Don't think I goddamn _did_ anything."

Vlad sighed a father's sigh. "It is more than that. Arkady talked about trust, loyalty, _da_? Like most things, it takes time."

They reached the van. Finnick unlocked it, and Vlad got in the passenger side. He fit comfortably, maybe slightly oversized, but not alarmingly so. Finnick walked around to the driver's side and stopped by the door. He froze, and, riding a wave of instinct, began to run his paws under the wheel arch, feeling and prying for any box or irregular shape. He went around the entire driver's side, under the metal, sometimes even kneeling down to look, then saw the effort as pointless and got in.

Vlad didn't look as if he'd noticed.

Finnick could only see their slanted reflections in the windscreen, and they definitely were an odd pair. He turned the engine on. The lights went off, leaving only dials and speedometers to glow in their wake. Beyond that, over the buildings and into the sky, light converged like a great ensemble of fireflies towards the peaks of downtown. It was a separate world, elevated above dirty streets and fennecs.

"Come on," Vlad said, "There are two good mammals I want you to meet."

 **…**

Driving through ghosts and darkness reminded Finnick of the night a few days ago. The great search for the concrete lot. Back then, though still endlessly black, the city had shown a different face, wore different clothes. Apartment blocks and the floating eyes of cars certainly weren't his, weren't something he would be allowed to feel warmth from, but they were still there, still comforting in their own small way. Now, though, they hid. Barely any cars passed them, and barely any lights were on in the windows as they rolled by. Maybe Zootopia had collectively decided that Finnick had taken the final step too far, crossing the fine line over a crime that was a source of 'local colour' to a crime that was a source local problems. He had lost its trust now, well and truly. Hustling, well that was a relatable felony, somewhat victimless – like actors in a classical comedy play. Trafficking was unacceptable.

Light poured in from streetlights then passed. It was impossible to see anything other than creeping yellow road markings and buildings. Finnick just had to trust that the beach would be there when they arrived.

"You asked me," Vlad spoke for the first time since the square. Shadows danced on his face as they drove. "'How's Revy?' Remember? Well, I smiled because not much has changed. It _has_ only been a week."

Only a week? Maybe he was a time traveller after all, Finnick thought. "My bad."

"No, it is fine. She was sent home for fighting a day ago."

Vlad apparently regarded this as an inevitability.

"She walked home and called me while I was at work. She was in tears. I think she was ashamed of herself. I asked her why. She said she fought the 'only other foreign girl in her class' – some little _cyka_ named Anna. From our country, but still from very separate places. During recess, the girl said something about her clothes and her stripes and Revy got angry. Then there was something about her accent, where she was from. Revy pushed her. From there, it was just – I think – more pushing. Cubs don't use claws, _slava Bogu_." He rubbed his forehead. "Fighting her own kin. Not a typical story, eh? Bullying on a deeper level, almost. Bullying the mind. When I was at school in my home country, I was bullied just for what I was. My species. This city is a strange place."

They ploughed like pioneers through more darkness and buildings of increasingly boxy design edging the street. Eventually, and very suddenly, they bled away to an empty skyline, an ink-black sea and a beach. They pulled into a sand-swept parking lot and stopped

No other vehicles lingered. A board along the sidewalk promoted the beach as a **ZTP OFFICAL** recreational centre with **BEAUTIFUL VISTAS!** guaranteed. The plastic covering was scratched in long lines made by idle claws, and in the poster prey families lounged along the shore, night turning them into colourless ghosts that smiled with a strange kind of malice rather than glee. Nothing discernible traced the horizon except for the tiny line of the monorail as it faded off. The distant land looked like stage decoration, blurry cutouts of blue cardboard with small spots of yellow light. Vlad pushed his door open, and Finnick did the same, locking it as they went. Sand so plainly imported to almost feel artificial traced remains of the day – a few footprints there, a small excavation over there. Beyond that, the details were invisible. The sea rolled up the coastline and retreated but was unseen, and Finnick had the uneasy sense of being in a vacuum with only the tide to orientate himself. Vlad directed them forward.

The beach wasn't too big, nothing like some of the west coast cities that Finnick had seen in pictures and travel ads. It still stretched a good sixty meters from concrete to salt water. About halfway down the ever-so-slight incline, a golden glow floated like an island in the night. A fire. Two figures hunched around it, backs turned.

Vlad reached them and motioned Finnick to stay back. He spoke quietly to them. They were close enough to feel the spray from the sea as it rolled off, but if the tide had ever threatened this spot in the day, in the night, it could only spit at it. Plan B danced as a legitimate option in Finnick's mind, very real and almost tangible as if Finnick could reach out and take it. _Drive._

Vlad turned around. "Come," he said, "sit."

The three were perched on half-cut logs, probably stored somewhere along the coastline for a secluded after-hours retreat. Finnick sat on the spare one. A cheetah and a wolf smiled at him. The cheetah, coat dotted in typical black and yellow, wore a white shirt that glowed orange against the fire like a polaroid capturing sunset. He had his paws near the fire for warmth, though it wasn't cold.

The wolf wore a nylon bomber jacket, badges stitched into every available space. They were mostly military, colourful jets froze in mid-flight or chevrons that suggested he outranked all who sat by the fire by at least five years in officer training. One was a ZPD badge, stitched on the right arm – blue and black, and altered just enough to be legal. His breast showed a small, colourful drum kit, painted in three stripes of red, white and blue. Moments of life, maybe just phases of expression, dotted in little stamps across his jacket. He drew on what looked to be a fresh cigarette, smoke curling and disappearing into darkness as soon as he exhaled.

Vlad nodded at the wolf. "Vincent," then the cheetah, "Cojo. Short, simple. Easy to remember, _da_?"

"You're the new fennec?" The cheetah spoke first. "We already have one. I thought you were rare." He wasn't Russian, that much was certain, but his accent suggested he'd be born elsewhere in the country.

"Guess not," Finnick said.

"I'm Corey, Corey Joseph." He extended a paw, giving only one light shake when Finnick offered his. "They took my name and chopped it into two parts – Cojo. I'd never heard it like that before, but it's stuck. The other fennec's called Mike. He's quiet around us. He wears glasses, little square ones. A real tech type. Deals with all the expensive gear inside the restaurant. And out." The cheetah flashed a smile at Finnick. Like the shirt, the flames made his teeth glow. "Unpredictable, but he always orders the same drink from Josef. What is it?"

"Vodka," Vlad said.

"Right. Vodka neat, two cubes and nothing else. He just nurses that one glass and never has another. Weird, right? Do all you fennecs treat drinking like a mission? I thought it was just tigers."

Vlad shook his head. "I hate Vodka."

"Yeah," Cojo said, "someone told me. What did you call it?"

"Tasteless fire."

" _Tasteless fire_. Fair enough. You like Vodka, Finnick?"

"Nah," Finnick said. Tasteless fire was a good way of putting it, he thought. Even Vlad had a chance to be poetic tonight.

"But enough about Mike," Cojo waved off the subject, "What about you, Finnick?"

Finnick shrugged.

Vlad said, "He's a good driver, no doubt. What else is needed, eh?"

"Are you quiet?" The wolf, Vincent, spoke for the first time. In such a short sentence, Finnick couldn't pin down exactly what accent he had, but it had a drawl of a romantic language – like Maria. The same fluid conjunction of words. It was as if they spoke in a smooth handwritten script while the rest of the city used computer typeset.

"When I want to be," Finnick said.

Vincent smiled, apparently content with the answer.

"Was Mike there?" Cojo asked.

"No," Vlad said.

"Who turned up?"

"Keedvin, Mikhail and Mishel." The names fitted easily into Vlad's thick accent.

"An' Red Jacket," Finnick said.

Vincent smiled, an expression that was both grim and understanding. A doctor's sympathy. "Tyler," he said.

Tyler. Named, the wolf carried less threat – or more. Finnick couldn't decide. The word seemed to have a separate meaning among the three others, at least. Cojo scratched his brow and sighed, Vlad rubbed his eyes. Vincent looked off as if he could actually see the wolf in question standing on the shoreline, watching.

"A topic best avoided," Vlad said.

Cojo nodded. "But you got to hear Mishel play though. Right?" He directed the question at Vlad, who nodded. The cheetah looked at Finnick. "She's good, isn't she. What piece did she play?"

"Don't know," Finnick said.

"Shame. You haven't talked to any of us other than Vlad and Arkady yet?"

"No."

Vincent smiled. "We're certainly not the best ones to meet first," he said. "None of the others would be so tired. Maybe we _should_ take you to Mike." He threw the remains of a cigarette into the fire. His accent was central European. French – or at least something close to it. The way the words pitched at lower tones. The vowels placed lower in the throat. It was distinct. Exotic.

"Maybe," Cojo agreed.

"But when you met Arkady, was he quick with you?" Vincent said. "Brutal, no? I assume he talked about loyalty. Did he use the Renko speech?"

"Of course he did," Cojo said. "' _Fuck your Mother!_ '" He quoted it as an established classic. "Shocking tales like that make him seem different, charming; a loveable rogue. The patrons eat it up, and it makes it look like he has an honest streak to peasants like you and me."

Vlad made a warning sound, the same kind he would if Revy held a glass off their balcony, teasing it over the street below. Cojo looked as if he hadn't heard it.

Finnick said, "He's a good speaker."

"Of course," Cojo said.

" _Oui_ , the best," Vincent agreed.

The fire snapped and gained new life, cracking like distant pistols. A few central pieces of wood had crumbled into the red centre, glowing as sparks trailed away. Cojo leant in and took a deep breath, then let it out in a steady stream. The fire growled and took it hungrily, flaring up as he pulled his face away. Flecks of spray from the shore hit the back of Finnick's neck, and he shivered.

The two nights, now and his meeting with Vlad in the lot, had more in common than Finnick had first thought. Both projected exhaustion through a lens of certainty. Both made the future seem to not only be an unknown but a dark knowable – a chasm in which to perceive depths that didn't just hold uncertain promises, but a sense of inevitable fate. A rock kicked over the side clattered and echoed but eventually found an unseen floor. Both asked the same question about the chasm too. What would be better; to plummet into it unconsciously or to simply slip into it and fall down, wide awake all the way?

Vlad yawned. Tiredness seemed to be encroaching into his blue eyes, making them ever so slightly clouded. "You have a job tomorrow don't you, Cojo?" He asked. "I believe you are Finnick's first ride along."

"Yeah, in the Canals. Very backwater, some failed development project or something. That reminds me..." From behind his seat he pulled a small cardboard box, sizable enough to fit in Finnick's grip, and gave it to Vlad.

Vlad took it and smiled. " _Spasibo._ You said Canal District? An adventure."

"A waterlogged one, sure."

" _Psh_ , details. It is an adventure all the same."

"You ready for it, Finnick?"

Finnick was more worried about the van than himself. The canal district had broken roads as well as promises – developments edged in arrogantly then swallowed up by the jungle, investors cowering away. What remained there was not dissimilar to Happytown, albeit with more exotic scenery. An urban jungle, even mired with graffiti and smashed bus stops, still could not hold a candle to the real thing.

Finnick shrugged.

"Well, at least you're honest," Vincent said.

As Finnick and Vlad left, the darkness seemed to be bearing down harder. The shore submitted, disappearing, and the night pressed as if denying the inevitability of a new sunrise. The two figures by the fire remained alone; last guardians of light before a new day.

* * *

 **Thanks to my beta's hmweasley and** **iTzDELTA.**


	8. Eight

**EIGHT**

It was an uncertain morning. A blue canvas sky baked the city, evaporating pools of rain that had arrived in the night into only a few intermittent dark spots. Yet the air was volatile, and dark clouds loomed. Great nimbuses at mid-distance with menacing size that looked eager to provide a new coat to the concrete. There was a great inviting blue and gold on one face, then only blackness on another. A room filled with gas waiting for a single clumsy spark.

Finnick stepped out of the fast-food restaurant, glasses on, and looked up at the sky. He frowned at it, then turned to a nearby garbage can, threw the remains of cheap breakfast into it, and walked to his van. It was calming to rely on something so common. So average. Finnick could do average, he thought. Money was the only thing necessary for average. The van faced away from him, parked in a spot close to the road. He stepped around a puddle and didn't consider his options too much – though maybe he should've bought the quarter pounder without fries. And the shake? That was pushing it. It was all an elaborate ratio of cost to food. A balance Finnick struck. He looked up and grimaced at the sky again.

He put a paw on the driver door, then froze. Lifting his glasses, Finnick peered at a small light-brown package pinned under the windscreen wiper. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled. The offset of the sunshine made the noise seem otherworldly as if something had split deep beneath the earth. Finnick clambered up and onto the small hood, gripping the side of the windshield for purchase as the wind picked up and the pressure seemed to fall away. He grabbed the parcel and pulled it out from under the wiper.

"That your van, Fennec?"

Finnick turned. A rabbit frowned back, cheap employee cap pulled tightly over his head like a meal toy drill sergeant.

"That your business?"

"I'll make it."

"It's mine. Maybe you should stay in your lane, asshole."

The rabbit opened his mouth as if to speak, but only managed to tighten his cap and his scowl in response.

"Damn foxes," he murmured. Then he skulked off.

Finnick hopped off the bonnet and got in his car, weighing the package in his paw. When he opened it, a flip-phone, small enough for a Fennec to hold, slid out. The wind whipped up suddenly, just in time to meet another distant thunderclap. Finnick glared at the phone. Questions pressed into his mind suddenly and from all angles, with only sparse answers meeting them at some length. Methods to finding more answers also arrived. Finnick ground his teeth and looked around. The rabbit was the only other mammal occupying the lot, stuffing the contents of garbage cans into bags with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. The street was a different matter. Sidewalks were packed, and windows were mirrors reflecting both brilliant sunlight and black thunderclouds at once. Faces were indistinguishable. Something seemed to latch onto Finnick's stomach as he flipped open the phone.

It glowed into life, some old brand's ident floating across the tiny screen with a stuttering animation. A homepage appeared. No start-up process; it had already been turned on. He fumbled with the buttons, clicking them one by one, watching more and more confusing things jump around the screen. Eventually, somehow, he clicked on an icon that said MESSAGES with a little red exclamation mark in the corner of the box. One unopened text – that was what it probably meant. Finnick missed pagers. What was the point of technology getting more complicated to use? It was like trying to write a song backwards.

There was only one highlighted name, _Kolesnitsa._ Finnick opened it.

 _"Hello Fin!_

 _"I hope you enjoyed the money from your first payment last night. Much more will come. I had them drop off new phone for you. Great device. I wanted to give you older one. New phones are expensive and harder to take off grid. I thought you would like older and simpler one as well. See this as a company product. Do not use it for your own calls. Never use it to contact authorities. Never use it to ring me in public. It serves as a one-way link between me (I am your handler) and nobody else. It is also disposable. If you are ever (hopefully never) caught with it snap it in half and throw it away. Never give it to anyone else. I also installed a car racing game because I thought you may like it. My best score is forty._

 _"All jobs will be sent through here. If you need to talk to one of us ring me and I can arrange. The messages will always contain a location for picking up the ride along. Remember it then delete the message (it is the box with the trash can). Delete this one too after you have finished reading (sad since it has taken me a long time to write this)._

 _"Keep it close and trust it Fin._

 _"P.s. Revy wishes you to see her soon so you can pay her and help her get revenge on her bully Anna. You should visit (My doors are always open)."_

Finnick read it once more, then pressed the box with the trash can. The message disappeared. He snapped the phone shut and threw it in his glove box.

One question stuck out to Finnick. He looked around the parking lot again and checked the streets. He watched couples stare grimly at the uneven weather, watched older mammals lean into the breeze for support, and watched joggers glide by, weaving around all other pedestrians like slalom skiers. No faces jumped out as recognisable. He could find no answers.

Finnick backed out of the space and drove slowly towards the rabbit, now on his third garbage can. He stopped and rolled down the window.

"Ay," Finnick called. The rabbit didn't look up. "Hey!"

"What?" He turned. A gust threatened his cap, so he placed a paw on it.

"You see anyone go near my ride when you was out here?"

The rabbit straightened and shrugged. "Yeah, I mean… maybe. What's it to you?"

"What d'you mean?"

The rabbit shuffled slightly. "Uh, how much is it to you?"

"If you think I'm payin' you you're on a different goddamn planet."

"Fine. Don't pay me, Fennec. It's not like I need _your_ money anyway. I think I seen a wolf get near the van a few minutes ago. He didn't even do much." The rabbit began to turn.

"So why'd you remember him?"

"Well," he turned back, "he looked at me with this weird shit-eatin' grin after he put somethin' under the wiper. Not the kind you can return. Had a bright red jacket on too. Pal o' yours? Wouldn't surprise me."

"No."

"Okay, but–"

Finnick stamped on the gas and sped out of the parking lot. The wind, the pressure, the air – all of it promised lighting and thunder. Finnick had never been scared of thunderstorms in his life, but now he felt a new desperation to drive away from uncertainty rather than just abide by it. He caught himself checking his mirrors at a more than steady rate. At a stoplight, his phone rattled inside the glovebox. It took four more stoplights before he took it out and opened the message. It was, once again, from _Kolesnitsa_.

 _"Central on Fifth. Furbank department store. Waterlogged adventure. Enjoy."_

 **…**

Cojo pulled the door shut as he got in. It was like musical chairs, Finnick thought. A different mammal sat next to him every day of the week.

"You delete the message?" The cheetah asked.

"Yeah." Finnick pulled away from the kerb and started eastbound.

"Good, good. It's called the 'Urals' – where we're going. Did you, uh… do you know Happytown?"

Finnick nodded.

"The 'Urals' is just like Happytown; all run down and cut off from the rest of the city. Real shit show. It's close to Kapok Street Station. Know it?"

"Sorta."

"As long as you get close to there the details don't matter."

When they got onto the highway, all talk faded. The route was clear enough, and the drive itself was just under three and a half hours by Finnick's best guess. The weather continued to ponder. Cojo leant back into the passenger seat, fitting comfortably, and flipped up the dog-ear of a page from _Bite Club_ that he had carried into the car. Finnick's theory was reinforced. People changed. Midnight Cojo had possessed a certain confidence and curiosity, let loose by a bright, glowing smile and implicit tones. Now, dressed in a black-felt zipper jacket and jeans, he retreated to amicability. Finnick focused on the driving, found it to give him fleeting purpose, and considered his options.

Tyler had found him. The simple fact was always the hardest to digest. But Finnick was dissatisfied. He needed more. The simple fact only brought up more questions, only backed up more theories. He ran the moments between the restaurant and the beach last night like an old film. Had he felt anything under the van? Nothing unusual. But he had only checked one side and checking the other earlier had yielded nothing. What about the engine? The hubcaps? The fuel cover? Endless opportunities. He dismissed this all, reminding himself of the meal in the morning. What would Plan B have afforded him? Yet the simple fact persisted. Red Jacket had found him. Red Jacket had known exactly where he was. The simple fact created a simple question. How?

The city passed in the background as a winding billboard. They kept the gleaming spires of Central on their right as they drove, with the smokestacks and loading cranes of the harbour on their left towards the thunderclouds. The Savannah District was buried somewhere in-between. The high ridge of the rainforest border rose above them. Traffic was dense but at a steady pace. They didn't get stuck. They didn't pass close enough to Vyborg Square to see the restaurant. Apartments blocked views of Happytown. Finnick accepted the small victories. Soon, the city suddenly bled away to a tunnel packed with noise and a dull yellow glow. The inter-district tunnel was long enough to elude hints of day or night, long enough to warrant a small yet strange perversion of Finnick's body clock. Exhaustion, or the familiar sickly feel of it, at least, reappeared. They drove in dull light for about twenty or thirty minutes, then were embraced first by blinding light then only green.

Green. There was not much else. The Jungle towered over them. Trees as tall as tower blocks and as wide as small parks rose to greet them. Their necks craned, and craned, and craned until, high above – seemingly at cruising height – a massive web of branches and leaves divulged only the thinnest rays of sunlight. This was the plastic part of the Jungle. The part built for tourists. Quaint little buildings were dotted along the immense trunks, and the canopy and floor felt not only miles but also days apart. Something could happen below that would never reach the surface. Something always did.

No rain met them yet. As with all the districts in the city, the tunnel seemed to pass to a different dimension. A different world. This was a land of green and of communities nestled within the ecosystem, connected by rope-bridges and a winding highway that curled almost like a country lane around massive trunks. The dim of traffic somehow found a place within the Jungle, though at every lull in the engine an uncountable number of birds whooped and chattered at volumes and pitches designed to remind all mammals of their small place among natural giants.

They stopped. A vine-covered light flashed red, and the highway ahead of them separated into two. It rose just as though it would let through a cruise ship, yet a small touring blimp lumbered into view and glided past, listing through the air like a whale. It followed a pre-defined path, of course. Finnick watched it wade through the mist and humidity until it passed around the side of a trunk and disappeared.

"I never understood that. Why lift the bridge?" mused Cojo. "Just have it to fly over."

It was all for effect, Finnick thought, all a matter of priorities. What infringed on the aesthetics? What better helped realise the dream of an almost tribal community nestled amongst nature like subjects serving some higher being? That was what the planners for this place must have asked. They put all the real urban architects in the room marked 'Downtown', and all the artists in a room marked 'The Rainforest'. They may have thought briefly about infrastructural needs, but not long enough to make a lasting impression. Aesthetics had become the priority. No wonder it was such a mess.

Like most others, this ugly truth revealed itself beyond the surface. As Finnick and Cojo pressed closer towards the Canals, the need for a functioning, non-aesthetic life began to claw its way back. Traffic dissipated, the highway descended, and so did the gigantic trees. They were not cheap. People had protested over less.

"They left the Canals to themselves," Cojo said. "Build and run. It's like one of those old movie stars. Mamilyn Monroe. Remember her? All beautiful smiles up front, but drugs and despair behind the scenes."

"Try livin' in one instead of jus' talkin' about it," Finnick said.

The humidity became oppressive and the mist began to seep into the van. Both Finnick and Cojo rolled down their windows. The Jungle rushed in, occupying every stationary moment with noise from a thousand sources that was almost as claustrophobic as the air. Cojo took his bomber jacket off, and let it rest in his lap. He put the book away – its pages now warped by water vapour. Driving became an extended power slide through one intolerably large, expansive puddle. Finnick had very little to say for the Jungle, but a lot to hate about its humidity. Tujunga revealed itself.

"Y'know they found that feral panther here?" Cojo said.

"I know."

It was the last stop of the tall trees and connecting rope bridges that traced overhead like power lines. Finnick kept eastbound, switched to the north ring road, and from then followed roads through islands in the mist.

The rain had finally come. At first a cloudburst, then extended sheets of water. Steady and absolute. They rolled the windows up and the metal roof above them clattered. Finnick and Cojo plunged deeper and deeper into the Canal district, further and further away of the ire of the city council. Along bridges they passed intermittent vehicles, all much larger and better suited to the rain than Finnick's van, and saw only the odd canal boat as it drifted in the mist. They all looked lost, old, and rusted – far from the projected image of prosperity in the centre of the district.

Rain Lane Station drifted by. It was a small, overgrown stop that ran trains sporadically at best. Mammals that stood in the shelters and waited away from the rain were a different brand to the rest of the city. Most were predators. Most were wrapped up in cheap clothes, even rags, and huddled together or stood alone – showing no face to anyone in either case. Though, for many others, the rain invited an event. Some mammals more inclined to the water sat on plastic chairs with beer cans, laughing, expressive, and shirtless – as if the sheets of rain were rays of sunlight. There was an unbridled, free joy in some faces. Others looked stone cold. People changed.

"Pull into the station when we get there," Cojo said.

Across one last bridge, Kapok Street arrived. They pulled up into the parking lot, waved through by a possum in a tiny booth that didn't even look up from her magazine, and parked. The lot was tiny, the station covered the area of little more than a bus shelter. Real rainforest, not the aesthetically engineered kind in central, bordered them, closed in on them, and seemed to creep closer when unwatched. Cojo got out with his bomber jacket over his head and kicked Finnick's door shut. Finnick got out, embraced the first shock of the raindrops then shuddered. Everything would be soaked through. His black shirt, his khakis – they were already dotted with drops. He left his phone in the van. Cojo grimaced and came around the side.

"Hey, Finnick! … _Goddamn…_ Finnick!"

Finnick turned. The cheetah looked down at him from under the cover of his jacket.

"Mikhail is waiting for us. The other Siberian Tiger. He was in the restaurant last night – probably wore a pea coat or a sweater, both black. You remember him?" Cojo had to raise his voice.

Finnick remembered the intelligent face. "Yeah."

"He's in the 'Urals', a short trek up a footpath and into a little village. I think it's that way." He gestured towards a gap in the trees. Between them, something close to a path formed – only to be swallowed up by the Rainforest a few steps in.

"How long we gonna be?" There was no fence around the lot. The possum didn't look inclined to protect any of the vehicles.

"We can wrap it up in thirty if we hurry."

"Can't I jus' drive an' meet you there?"

"No," Cojo said. "Mikie told me more than once that the 'Urals' can't be accessed by road. They ship everything out on small boats."

Finnick cast a sceptical look at the path. "You 'think' it's that way?"

"I hope, Finnick. I hope."

The trail wound as they walked it, never clear for more than five or so meters, and met a gradual incline towards some unknown town Finnick was yet to believe existed. Roots, vines, fallen logs and bushes dictated the path. The canopy covered the sky. Cojo still held his coat over his head.

"Wonder why they call it the 'Urals'?" The cheetah said.

"No."

"It's the people. There was a wave of immigrants in the last fifty years – a whole area in Arkady's country pushed out by a local warlord. Or several of them. I can't remember. Anyway, Zootopia, still growing and – unsurprisingly – mightily interested in cheap manual labour, offered incentives for them. A win-win; they look like saints and get a dependent workforce to boot. Look who suffered–"

He broke off, swore, and stopped, flailing an arm around suddenly. Finnick turned. Behind him, the cheetah brushed his shirt down and shivered. "Bug," he explained.

They carried on. "Everybody here speaks their native language," Cojo continued. "Most don't know any English. The district council doesn't collect data, and the last ordinance that even affected this place was published ten years ago. It's ironic. A community enticed into an area to help build it from the ground up, just to be cut off from it and swept under the rug like yesterday's business. One of the many benefits of an ultra-meritocratic society, that right there."

They passed mammals walking the trail that looked as old as the trees, all predators, with faces cast in a different kind of greying, weary resolve. They either stared at Finnick and Cojo or kept their heads down.

Corrugated metal announced itself with a tinny drumroll of raindrops before it was visible, and, like archaeologists uncovering a ruin in a cavern, the pair caught sight of the 'Urals' soon after. The structures were tiny and fragile, built either out of brick turned green by vine and overgrowth, or by scavenged pieces of plastic and metal, they packed themselves together in a clearing that gave some respite from the jungle – but not much.

Cojo nodded towards the centre where a few overgrown buildings ran parallel to each other.

"They built those then left the rest to improvise," he said. "Mikhail's in one of them. Somewhere."

His coat had isolated him, Finnick thought. Everyone and everything in the clearing was drenched, well and truly. The people moved under the weight of both whatever basket of food or broken piece of furniture they were carrying as well as the sodden clothes that clung to their backs. Rain drummed metal and hollow plastic, was collected and siphoned off into drains that fed to dirty containers. Rain soaked the ground, choked dirt into mud. Cojo looked different because he was dry, just as an image-possessed celebrity sent to some far-flung tribe for a charity advert would.

They walked down the main street, small as it was, passing stalls set up on either side that sold smoked fish by the droves. Some other stalls found space, selling a chaotic assortment of items – some clearly broken – but the smell of dead marine life preceded all else. It made Finnick hungry. Cojo put a paw to his nose.

"Should be this one," the cheetah said, pointing to a two-story brick house cased in ivy and mildew. Black stains pocked parts of the white plaster that escaped the overgrowth. It looked like a store but the shutter was down, its handle rusted, so instead Cojo pushed through a flimsy wooden door and gestured Finnick inside.

It was a shell of a room. Only the black lines left by furniture and counters remained on the walls and floors, and a single dark line led all the way from the centre of the ceiling to a corner of a wall. Stripped wire. Mikhail, dressed in a wet pea coat, sat on an old plastic chair in the centre of the room and faced a small window that showed nothing but grime and light.

"We made it," Cojo said, standing by the door.

"At last," said Mikhail.

"Well, I did just navigate the goddamn Amazon. Can't always be on time."

Mikhail waved the statement off.

Finnick said, "Is it here?"

Mikhail shook his head. "The package? No. It's further north, towards the sea bank. This is not a dead drop in the truest sense. We need to see some intermediaries first, then we'll know exactly where it is." His accent, like Arkady's, was light and betrayed only by inflections.

"They always this damn hard to find?"

"It's worth it," Mikhail said. "Should pay well for you, too." He had unfocused eyes. Some unseen thing in the room had captured his attention. He stood up, but still looked away from Finnick and Cojo.

"Let's go Mikie," Cojo said.

Mikhail turned to face Finnick. "You know the way back to the station?"

Finnick nodded.

"Good. Go to your van while the Cheetah and I sort out the location. You need to pick us up after we are done talking. An old road splits off from the parking lot that used to carry wagonloads of goods from a local factory. Both are now unused. There should be a fork in it at about two-hundred meters in. Take the left road and keep driving until you see the junkyard. We'll be there."

"Alright, get that Finnick?" Cojo asked. "Good. Come on Mikie. Let's move."

"Wait outside Corey," Mikhail said.

"What?"

"I said: 'Wait outside'."

Cojo seemed to shift on his feet for a moment, then whipped his jacket over his head again and slammed the door as he went out.

"Amateur," Mikhail breathed. He sat back down. There was a methodical nature in his movements. Nether too fast nor too slow. "Where are you from, Finnick?"

Finnick rung the bottom of his shirt. "Does it matter?"

"I think it does. Places like this," he waved to the room, "have stuck with me. Surely there are places from your hometown that stick with you."

"Nah," Finnick said, "nothin'."

"Nothing? Strange. See, when I look there," he said, pointing at a naked corner with a stained lining, "I see the isle that caused the most pain for me. Videotapes and records. Whenever two mammals came in, one coming towards me to occupy my attention, I always knew the other stalked over there to steal. It happened many times. The store's blind spot. Or, over there by the window, where someone smashed it late at night and tried to climb through. They had a long cut," he moved a claw down the length of his arm, "all the way to the finger. Memories. Really rather overblown. When I expose myself to them, I always catch myself trying to sort through them. Picking the best. Do you do that?"

The question struck Finnick.

"Ah, well," Mikhail said, "I have money now. I've left this place. Yet, there is something here that filled me as Downtown never can. Some space." He paused. "What do you think of the cheetah, huh?"

"Talks a lot."

"He does. Did he talk about this place?"

"Yeah."

"Mechanically? Like a footnote in a textbook?"

Finnick no longer felt the need to input.

"He could never know, yet he's very good at making it seem like he does, _da_? The arrogance is incredible. Now, imagine how is with the rest of us. The likes of you and me. To him, I am a footnote. Something to explain in a sentence. We are all footnotes. We _all_ have reasons, 'causes' – all he needs is one look and he thinks he knows everything. He picks through our lives like he owns them."

Finnick kept his gaze trained on the tiger. Mikhail had tensed, seated with his paws together in his lap as if in a formal hearing, frowning at nothing like a contemplative scholar.

"And among us, if you can believe it, behaviour like that is encouraged." He sighed and looked at Finnick. "I just wanted to warn you." Then he smiled slightly, almost smug, and walked to the exit. "Left at the fork. You know the way?"

"Not really."

"I have faith that you'll find it. I'll meet you there, Finnick."

 **…**

Life here operated at two extremes, Finnick thought. There were the old folk, with movements suspended at a slower pace relative to the world, who stared with great inquisition at a small, distinctly foreign fox who strolled by their home. Then there were the young ones. The day didn't seem to move fast enough for them. They either screamed, raced and chased each other in the rain, or, if older, hung in groups. Both observed closely. Those in groups tried to intimidate. For the rest, his presence merely confused them. The faces seemed so similar to Finnick. So familiar. It was like Happytown in winter. The same people, same mix of stares. The same oppressive poverty. Finnick walked faster.

Sure enough, there was a trail at the other end of the lot that had gone unseen thanks to its undergrowth camouflage. As he drove down it, the van rocked like a ship, powered through puddles, lost traction a few times, but maintained. He was a true explorer now. Paths like these led to places of the city glimpsed by only the most dedicated pioneers. At the famous fork, he turned left, intruded through more Jungle, and pressed harder. The itch to hurry became pronounced.

A chain link fence appeared, so old that it seemed to be only roots that held it to the ground. A sign stood by an opening, the only discernible word now being 'Scrapyard'. Inside, rusted cars were staked and strewn like a pit of bodies. Long dead. There was nothing from the last century, and in the centre was an ancient bus, with only the metal frame remaining. Windows, rubber, glass, electronics, hubcaps and engines – all of it scrapped. All of the vehicles shared the same fate. The image of the white bunny, Crews, filtered through Finnick's mind. Even she might have a hard time with this place, he thought. The only thing left was rust.

Inside the bus, he saw figures sheltered from the rain. Cojo's white shirt and Mikhail's pea coat moved among them, so Finnick pulled beside it. A group of mammals sat at the back of the empty bus, while another stood closer to the front, the only one animated and moving as he talked with Mikhail. All were dressed in tracksuits and shiny branded raincoats. Mikhail looked conciliatory, on the back foot. Something had happened before Finnick's arrival and he was trying to compensate. He placed a paw on the only other mammal standing, a tiger of about his age dressed in tracksuit pants and a white sweatshirt. Violence seemed to charge his movements. He cast searing looks at Cojo – who hung back with an irritated frown – while talking passionately with Mikhail. All the other predators that sat looked inert. The face of a hyena, red-eyed and distant, poked out and looked at Finnick. He was on something. They kept the main one sober for talking. Even then, the Tiger brushed his nose far too often, moved far too sporadically. The face that looked at Finnick grinned with intent, showing broken and black teeth. He looked young, small, and thin. Desperate.

When Mikhail and Cojo finally got out, Mikhail clenched his jaw and cast scathing looks at Cojo. They neared Finnick's van.

Cojo caught the gaze. "What?"

"Don't ever speak to my friends like that again."

"Like what?"

Mikhail spat a phrase out in Russian. It didn't sound like a compliment. "I'm walking there myself. Finnick, have this _pizda_ direct you. He's eager enough to know the way."

Then he walked off, away from the bus, behind an old boxy hatchback brown with rust and, after ripping apart a few frail pieces, through the fence and into the rainforest. Cojo got in and yanked the door shut.

Finnick frowned. "Don't slam my shit."

"Don't talk to me. Jus' drive. Go back to the fork and take the other road. Fuck this place. Drags me in there with Russians offended by English, then _he's_ pissed. His _old friends._ Two-bit addicts with a god complex. Fuck these people."

They moved away from the junkyard in silence, watched, as Finnick caught them in the mirrors, by the Canals' rendition of the magic school bus. Not an adventure, Finnick thought. At least not yet.

The day tried its best to catch up with them. Somewhere beyond the clouds, the sun had moved closer to the horizon, and the Jungle answered with a more oppressive burst of thunder and rain. The trail became progressively more difficult. One log blocked their way, moved only by the combined might of Cojo and a wheel-spun push from Finnick's van. The cheetah had abandoned the jacket now and, with it gone, Finnick felt as though a threshold had been crossed. It was silent all of the way to the factory until a barrier, green with vines, blocked their way. The booth was empty, windowless, and had a roof of moss that looked like someone had laid a carpet out to dry.

"Wait here," Cojo said.

He got out, once again without his jacket, and put two paws underneath the barrier. When he lifted it, the wood warped and split, then crumpled at the metal. Rotten. Cojo dropped it and got back in. They drove on, and between the trees Finnick began to catch the smallest glimpses of a mass of grey and black. Burnt wildlife at the core of the rainforest. Then they got closer, and the factory revealed itself.

It was archaic; the cities' closest thing to a medieval castle. Though the trees still towered over, a building amassed of brick and metal dominated the space. The rainforest tried to hide it. Vines were everywhere, covered everything, even the barrels and bricks dumped outside. The tiles of the roof had collapsed in, and rain poured through. One smokestack remained like some unearthly black monolith among bark, but the other had collapsed in onto the main structure, toppling a wall around it. Its curse was such that the building wished to accelerate its own fate, demolishing itself even when the council refused. Finnick wanted to drive away.

"It's here," Cojo said grimly. "They left it here for us."

"They ain't jus' give it over?"

"They aren't allowed to. You think we'd trust junkies with merchandise, let alone _those_ freaks?"

They pulled into a clearing of sorts beside an old loading bay. The garage door was comprised seemingly of vines, graffiti and rust. Metal was somewhere beneath all three.

Cojo threw the door open. "Look around," he said.

"Look around?" Finnick was bewildered.

"Yes, look the hell around. Thing ain't just going to appear, ain't it?"

Finnick was beginning to see Mikhail's point. He looked the hell around, trying to find the tiger in question, but the building, cloaked in a total sense of disrepair and abandonment, revealed nothing. He got out.

A half hour passed, or what felt like half a day, and the Jungle darkened. He pulled over bricks to reveal discarded syringes, threw over metal sheets to reveal cockroaches that scuttled away. Cojo seemed more content to just look at the rubble rather than touch it. Finnick pushed a barrel aside, peered and felt into the space, and saw a huge web buckle as a spider much bigger than his fist rear two long, lithe front legs at the disruption. Finnick whipped his paw back, throat tightening. He moved more carefully after that.

Darkness felt as though it was pouring out of something or somewhere deep within the rainforest like a black spring. Shadows marched towards them. The factory looked as though it would sink at any moment into the sea of green. Mikhail appeared.

"Finnick? Where's the cheetah?" He stood on the remains of a wall. Behind him, overgrowth staffed the production line.

Cojo appeared by Finnick's side. "'The Cheetah' has been waiting for you to show for the last half hour. What took you so long?"

"Want to stand here and talk or get the package?" Mikhail said.

Finnick said, "Where is it?"

"The other side."

Cojo stepped forward. "Let's clear this up. You had your little private Russian talk with coke-boy in the bus, he gave you the exact location, but you jus' told us to shove over to the factory? You made us _wait_ for you?"

Mikhail's eyes seemed to darken. "If you don't watch that tone, _pizda_ , I'll make you wait for surgery. You want to crawl back to Arkady and tell him your arrogance got in the way of a delivery?"

Cojo said nothing.

"That's what I thought. Follow me and keep your mouth shut. Finnick, stay by the van. I'll ring you when we find it." He walked out of sight. Cojo seemed to hesitate, then, after a few moments, turned to Finnick.

"He must've told you some shit about me back in that ditch he calls his home. He might promise the damn world. But do you know who he uses? Who he relies on? Take a guess."

The mammal appeared in Finnick's mind. The crimson jacket.

"Never trust these guys, Finnick." Cojo walked off.

Which left Finnick with only the rain and the jungle for company - but neither he nor the factory were invited guests. He grated his teeth and rung out the bottom of his shirt again. He wondered if the downpour would be the final toll to his van. Maybe more than just his gearbox would be a problem.

Time crawled now. Nothing occupied the space between fear and reality in Finnick's mind. He sat in the van. The dark leather of both seats was soaked, shining from the water reserve collected during the journey. The rainforest numbed him, and the drumming of rain on his roof coerced his thoughts to the forefront of his attention. Mikhail, Cojo. Tyler, Vlad. Lies, reality. Truth and fantasy. Finnick remembered watching his dad clutch a lottery ticket in the evening every other day, transfixed on their small TV screen as the numbers were read out. His five minutes of lies and fantasy in a world of truth and reality. Finnick thought it was childish, but all the same, he couldn't help but picture his own thoughts like the numbers that flew around in the Powerball machine on the TV. In both cases, the resulting line-up was never what it should have been. Needed to be. So, like his father, he drew them again, and again, and again. But, no matter how ran it, the pieces didn't fall as he wanted them too. Needed them to. Finnick didn't find answers. Noah never got any winning numbers.

He heard a rustle through the open window.

All thought was shattered. Finnick stared over the driver seat and out the window. The darkness of the jungle rose like a cliff face beyond the factory limits. He watched there for a long time, tuning his ears to whatever noise he could pick up. Any unnatural sound, any twig snap, any brushing leaves. The rain was total now. It was practically night. Visibility was a matter of meters. Lighting flashed.

Like a blinding camera, Finnick caught the outline of a figure about ten meters away, ghost suspended for a few moments. It took only a second for him to throw himself into the back of the van and grab his bat. Once outside, he stood at the driver door, bat raised, and slammed his van as hard as he could with his paw.

" _Make yo' move now! I dare ya!"_ He bellowed.

He couldn't tell whether his shout found its place over the rain. His eyes blazed as two amber spotlights, his sodden body rigid and braced. A twig snapped. Finnick raised his bat. The desperate face from earlier appeared.

Up close, the wolf was only a few heads taller than Finnick. He was soaking, tracksuit shining, his eyes confused yet strangely determined. He made no sound.

"Try it," Finnick dared.

The wolf made no move. He looked more confused, as if something was changing before his very eyes. The determination drained away. He backed up slowly, then fled.

Finnick didn't get back in his van. He didn't move. He scanned and listened. The lighting flashed. No ghosts stood, though tree stumps looked like forlorn onlookers. When Finnick did move, he got in his van quickly and started his engine. Cojo and Mikhail clearly had their own problems, and Finnick was never one to challenge possession. He put his foot on the gas.

"Finnick!"

Finnick took his foot off, and the van jerked to a stop. Cojo pushed through sheets of rain and came to Finnick's door. He shouted.

"Mikhail's got it! You ain't get the call?" he said.

Finnick shook his head.

"Stupid idea. Reception here? No chance." The cheetah careened around the side, slipped, and got in the passenger seat. "Go clockwise round," he breathed, "Left there, he should be at the tip of the collapsed smokestack. Green container."

"The junkies are here."

 _"Shit_ ," Cojo hissed, "Of course they are. How many? You see the ringleader?"

Finnick stamped on the gas. "I dunno," he said. There was no traction. He had to ease it past the rubble. "And no. Jus' some scrawny one."

"What did he do?"

"Got close, then booked it."

"Fuckin' Mikhail. What did I say?"

"A lot."

Maybe night had come, Finnick couldn't tell, but either way the Jungle was black with rain and thundering. The lights threw pieces of rubble and old cars, containers, and machinery into the van's way. Cojo directed Finnick every so often, sometimes too often, but Finnick didn't make a sound. They passed the old smokestack and rounded on the collapsed one.

"Here," Cojo said.

Again, the flash of lightening provided an early warning. In a space between the Rainforest and the factory stood the ghosts of two figures, outlines suddenly white and blue then black again. Finnick spun the van to illuminate them. Cojo hopped out before they'd stopped and raced over. In the headlights Mikhail and the ringleader stood. Mikhail, once again, possessed a conciliatory stance whereas this time the other was far more animated. Yelling; pointing; demanding. He was shouting, not yet physical, but it looked to be a matter of time. Cojo ran to them and attempted to stand between them, practically throwing himself into the ringleader. Finnick swore at the stupidity. The ringleader pushed him away. Mikhail tried to calm him and distance Cojo.

There was a tap on Finnick's window and the desperate mammal, now more assured, grinned at him. Finnick growled, grabbed the handle, and pumped the door into his face. He fell howling.

Finnick raced into the back and grabbed his bat as more figures from the bus approached like shuffling undead. Finnick threw himself out of the van. He swung his bat like a torch in a cave, scaring off predators that lurked in darkness and landing a hit on the desperate mammal on the ground again. Those at the wayside hesitated. The kid buckled, crawling away. In front of the van, caught in two yellow spotlights, things escalated.

The ringleader threw a punch at Cojo. Cojo tried to hit back. Mikhail pushed him away, shouting at him, before the ringleader clawed and grabbed at the tiger, foaming at the mouth as he tried to get to Cojo. The cheetah's eyes widened. Mikhail shouted at his friend now, yelled at him, and tried to break past the frenzy. The mammals around Finnick closed in again. The Fennec took one look sharp around, assessed the situation and all possible outcomes, then stepped into a swing that landed directly into the back of the ringleader's left knee.

His leg instantly buckled forward and he shouted, caught off guard. As he tried to whirl around to get Finnick, Mikhail, with a grimace and his paw still gripped on the right arm of the mammal, hooked him.

It was the first solid connection. A sound dense enough to disturb the rain. The ringleader jarred, then stiffened like a discarded action figure and crumpled onto the ground. Finnick turned around, bat raised. The junkies were all wide-eyed. None moved. One of the predators in the dark muttered something, and Mikhail nodded. Two came forward and grabbed the ringleader, not so much as looking at Finnick or Mikhail as they pulled him away and into the dark. By that time, the ringleader had regained a small amount of consciousness. He stared up at Mikhail and gave a look only of disbelief.

Adrenaline still pumped through Finnick. His heart thumped, his breaths were quick and deep. He let the bat drop only a full minute after the mammals had disappeared. Cojo still hung back. Mikhail didn't move.

"Mikie," Cojo began.

Mikhail spun around. He shoved the small package into Cojo's chest and spat in front of him. Then he left.

Cojo was silent and still. Rain fell in sheets. The only thing left of the conflict were a few marks in the ground and a small patch of crimson on the driver window. However, that faded too, mixing blood with murky water until it dripped off the metal, into the mud, and disappeared.

 **…**

"Strongest you got," Finnick said. The barman nodded.

The restaurant was alien. To plunge into one place so wild and dirty and move into another so clean and civilised created two great contrasts, but, ultimately, it had no effect on Finnick. He sat at the bar. He rubbed his eyes. He attempted to forget the day.

Total silence had encased the drive back. Cojo was content to leave Finnick and take the subway from Vine Street. The first good decision, Finnick thought. Driving in the dark gave him time to reflect. Pointless. Reflect on what? He ran the fight through his head a thousand times. He took the package back to Vyborg. He wondered if anything else would happen. A crash. So easy. One swing left. A stray stone on the highway. A tired mind and errant paws.

He met the square in the slim hours. He wanted to deliver the package, be paid and leave, but Vlad insisted he meet with Arkady. Finnick couldn't last the whole morning without a drink. The barman placed a small glass in front of him. Straight whisky. He sipped it and rubbed his eyes.

The restaurant entertained familiar guests. The majority of the group had arrived, clustered in twos and threes as they waited for their turn to speak to whomever they needed to. Vlad moved between them all like a party host, exchanged smiles and nods, sitting and talking. But the focus of the room seemed to gravitate towards Cojo.

He sat and drank to calm himself, arriving far before Finnick to, probably, practice his narrative. Explanations would be required. Cojo looked as though he tried to consider them all. He couldn't sit still. His eyes were bloodshot, fur frayed. People handle confrontation differently, Finnick thought. Vincent sat close, bomber jacket still on, comforting him, consoling, smiling. Attempting to understand. He smoked, and so did the polar bear who stood close – still wearing the cooking apron as Finnick had seen him in before. Mishel, the lynx, sat close by but did not engage with them or even look at them. A Fennec sat alone in the darkened corner with one glass of transparent liquid. The details were sparse in the shade, but his fur was white. He wore steel-rimmed glasses and didn't move much.

"Finnick," Arkady walked to him and stood by the bar. A different suit was on. This one was a grey three-piece with a red tie. "Excellent work today. Cojo has told me about your clarity and action. It's commendable." He placed a package of money in front of Finnick, who took it quickly. "Rest assured, no other delivery will be that exciting. You were met with some unlikely circumstances in the jungle."

Or was it just the second test? Finnick thought.

"Anyway, I have a contact for you. It's a location by Riverside, in a development area. Treat it as a secure way to maintain your van, if the need arises. No details, no paperwork. We'll cover the costs. Just call Vlahdim for a 'special order' and the owner will clear his schedule for a check-up. Does that work for you?"

"Yeah," Finnick said. "Appreciate it."

Arkady nodded. He turned away, taking a glass of white wine the barman had prepared and walking calmly over to Cojo.

Finnick maintained silence and measured his own drink out in careful sips. More thoughts tumbled through his mind. A real cascade, at this point. Enough to exhaust him. Questions abound, answers sparse. Under enervation, reality, at least in his mind, seemed to have an unsure place.

Vlad came and sat beside him. He smiled at the barman. "Hello, Josef."

The barman nodded.

"Not an' adventure," Finnick said.

Vlad made a sympathetic face. "I know. It is unfortunate, what happened."

"'Unfortunate' makes it sound like there weren't no way to prevent it."

"Well, it was unfortunate all the same. But, _Moy drug_ , you definitely did well this time. Acting as you did; it sent a very good message to Arkady, believe me."

"So I heard."

The door crashed open. Heads turned. Vlad's face set. Mikhail pushed the door too as he stepped in. All articles were drenched. He'd seen fit to take the long way back, it seemed. Maybe a train or two behind Cojo.

The cheetah stood, stiff but grim-faced as if standing to attention in a court-martial. Vlad got up and closed the gap. It seemed as though forces were ready to collide in the restaurant.

"Come here, _Corey_." Mikhail rasped.

Then things moved faster. Vlad stood in front of Mikhail and tried to talk him down. Where once Mikhail was conciliatory he was now pressing the attack. Mikhail and Vlad. The ringleader and Mikhail. The two images fit in Finnick's mind. People changed. Vincent stood in front of Cojo, who looked as though he kept a great effort reserved for not turning tail the moment Mikhail had walked in. Mikhail pushed against Vlad and shouted at Cojo. The polar bear came to assist Vlad. Arkady became frustrated after telling them both to calm down. Mishel rolled her eyes and lit another cigarette, not leaving her seat.

Even the barman seemed anxious now. He winced, put down a glass, and moved around the bar to the centre of attention.

"At least Tyler isn't here. Count the small victories."

The white-furred Fennec had slipped beside Finnick and sat next to him. He wore a white plaid shirt, black shorts, and had a keychain around his neck that held a small memory stick.

"To small victories." Finnick lifted his glass into the air slightly.

"Did they tell you about me?"

"Mike, right? They told me what you drink."

"That it?"

"Most of it. Why'd you care?"

He looked around, then back at Finnick. "Can I ask you somethin', Fennec?"

"I dunno. Can you?"

Mike put a coin on the bar between them. The grave profile of Elkaham Lincoln stared to the left. "You remember history in high school?"

"Why?"

"You remember that one speech? 'A house divided against itself cannot stand'."

Finnick shrugged. The drink had loosened his patience. "Mammals don't get along. Ain't nothin' new."

"Yeah, it ain't," Mike said, "But it's more than that."

"It always is, Mike," Finnick mumbled. He called him by his other name, "'Tech guy'."

"What?"

"'Tech guy'. Why they call you that? What, you need to stay here all the time to service flip-phones?"

Things began to quiet down somewhat them. Mike said, "Maybe I like it here."

"Don't sound it to me."

Mike stared into his drink. His eyes searched through the liquid, growing. Twitching. Finnick watched them. They were like searchlights. His face persisted, stable, subdued. His mouth was uncurled, brow unfurrowed. But the eyes reached a depth of emotion Finnick hadn't seen in a very long time. It was the kind of look he'd seen in fennecs before. Not 'Nick' – or whoever he was. No, those where glassy. Untouchable. What he saw in Mike reminded him specifically of a fennec standing by a bridge the day he'd learned his sister had died.

Mike seemed to sense Finnick's thoughts. "Does it look like it?"

"No."

The confrontation had subsided. Mikhail was the only one who remained animated. Arkady spoke to him but had no luck getting through. Cojo was getting ready to leave. The rest sat somewhere in between exhaustion or quiet frustration. Vlad practically radiated the latter.

"Well," Mike said. "Maybe it's like I said; more than just not getting along. 'A house divided against itself cannot stand'."

The barman came back. Mike got up and motioned to the coin on the bar.

"You should keep that. It's quite rare," he said. Then he looked right into Finnick's eyes. "In fact, if I were you, I wouldn't let it go." He walked away.

Finnick stared at his drink. Uncertainty remained. Only now, some darker cloud approached. Some greater unknown. The barman turned to Finnick.

"What's up with him?"

Finnick brushed the coin into his pocket. "No idea."

* * *

 **Thanks to Dancing Lunar Wolves for beta reading this chapter**


	9. Nine

**NINE**

Vlad's accent almost seemed stronger through the phone. _"Ah Finnick! "_

 _"_ Hey bud. Van's feeling a little pitched, somethin' wrong with the suspension. I could use the service garage Arkady mentioned."

 _"Of course! Just make your way there now, and I will call ahead."_

"Where is it?"

He flipped through some files on his end and read the address aloud. _"Did you get that my friend?"_

Finnick held the phone for some time before responding. "I think so."

 _"You think?"_

"Yeah, Vlad. Thanks." He put the phone down.

Finnick had parked to face the sea this time on a lot built along the eastern shore. No dock cranes, container ships or bridges stifled the view. Finding a place like that was hard work. Free of noise. Free of buildings. Free of memories. Not wild, untamed or dangerous like the canals or northern ice plains. Just calm. Calm like rolling countryside or coastal villages. He had met the images in front of him with total concentration. Away from noise. Away from buildings. Almost away from memories. Perusing a clarity that he could only reach after scrambling over mounds of reality – and could do so somewhere calm.

In the sunlight, unblemished today, there was nothing but gold and blue. It was a simple separation of horizon and sky. The sea was a spill of deep navy ink, and the sun held a lightning rod of sheening white over the tips of each wave reaching to it. The sound of the shore break, now tangible rather than alien as it had been nights before, seemed to anchor the breeze as it swept in through the vans' open windows. Like a sunrise, you had to meet the sea breath early before it mixed with the rush of traffic, of movement pressed into narrow streets, was swallowed up, and became nothing more than a suggestion of its former self. Finnick had woke to the sun already high above the horizon. He would not miss the breeze. Facing away from the city was a kind of relief, a form of respite; an illusion of space.

Vlad's phone call had made the entire act seem even weaker and foolish than it already was. The city would always find a way _,_ he thought. You were here for life. You could put a screen up over the window to show a picture of Xanadu, and maybe even believe it after some time, but even then the city would nudge it over while you weren't looking like some tormenting demon.

But this demon was real, demanded constant action, and, worst of all, wielded the all-powerful truth of reality. An unquestionable force. Finnick started the van and pulled away.

 **…**

Nothing much had changed in the garage. Clutter ruled. Order, assortments, and clean air were buried somewhere underneath.

"How come you got a special order status now?" Crews asked.

Finnick shut the door. He didn't turn to face her.

"Because he paid for it." Potto had come out from his office. "Don't ask dumb questions like that."

"Alright big guy. Chill out," Crews mumbled.

Finnick and Potto shared a look in her absence. Potto raised an eyebrow like a teacher watching a misbehaving student, reminding Finnick of the red writing he used to see all over his homework. _See me after class_.

Crews said, "You practice a little bit of off-road?"

The van was filthy. Darkness had hidden it but now stripped bare by the sun-caked mud covered almost half of the artwork. Dirt packed the wheel arches, had made his wipers form two neat rounded triangles of clarity on his windscreen, and had flecked up almost in brush strokes along the side of his van from the direction the wheels had spun. Orange dipped in brown, half-submerged in mud.

"…I guess we're just cleaning again?" Crews suggested after a moment of silence.

"I'm thinkin' about the suspension," Finnick said. "Parked it up last night and it pitched."

Crews took a breath to reply.

"Pitched how?" Potto said.

"Leaned on the front left wheel. Maybe a clogged spring? I dunno."

Crews nodded, "We'll–"

"Ain't sound too bad," Potto said, "I'll have a look."

He and Crews did just that. The bunny talked almost ritualistically as the van rose up on the mechanical jack.

"We ain't met the deadline for those contractors yet."

"We will," Potto muttered. At each interval that Crews turned, he stole a look at Finnick.

"' _We will_ '. Like it's just another down payment. These guys were on my back for a whole week. Don't you remember it? They tore down half the block, stopped at us, then gave your sign the evil eyes. I can't be accountable for that kind of form checkin' an' contract signing again."

"It's sorted itself out, ain't it?"

She shrugged, "Has it? God only knows what _you_ do with the money."

Potto looked at Finnick again. Maybe it was the just the brightness of the day, the beauty of a sky baked in an urban oven, but something hid true intent from his eyes. It was like peering at a mammal through the fog, yet sunlight streamed through the high windows and open door, lighting millions of dusk flecks that danced wildly.

Potto said, "Wanna wait this one out?"

Crews almost didn't seem to hear him at first. "What?"

"I've got this one, I can cover. Take a break. Go buy that signed picture you were ravin' bout."

"I think I can do better here. You worked with this van before?"

"Take a break."

Crews frowned. "What is it with you and the special order clients? You get so damn protective."

Potto just stared.

She turned to Finnick and asked, "What's changed?"

He could only meet her with silence. She shook her head and left.

After a minute, Potto checked outside then came back in. "My luck to get someone she's already met."

Finnick asked, "Why keep it from her?"

"Do I look like a fuckin' idiot? She's nineteen, attentive as all hell and a do-gooder. If I tell her, where do you think will be the first place she'll go? What name will be the first on her lips?" He shook his head. "That wolf was too specific. _No one."_

"She's too close."

"Goddamn know that already, don't I? Look, the shit with the springs ain't even goin' to take twenty minutes. The less we care about her, the better."

"Fine."

There was silence as he worked. The symphony of conversation that once filled Potto's was replaced with a quiet desire, on both sides, to ignore one another and move as fast as possible. Potto worked like any old professional. Quickly, efficiently. Crews may not have organised everything so well, but at least she would've filled the space with something other than unease. The creeping awkwardness in an intimate fact shared between two less than intimate acquaintances. When he was done, he merely said "Finished."

The van wasn't spotless. Potto had only scrubbed away the two front wheel arches that he'd worked on.

"How much?"

"Nothin'. Covered by the boss."

"Whose boss?" Crews' voice came from beside the garage door.

Potto's eyes froze for a moment, and his whole body seemed to tense. Then he relaxed. "Yours," he said. "You didn't buy the picture."

"Didn't want it." Her outline was as sharp as a spray-paint stencil on a wall of gold. "So, what, special orders are a free service now?"

Finnick moved towards his van and got in.

Potto shook his head, "No. Do you get paid to talk?"

"I barely get paid to work. You give out services for free?"

Potto only had a limit to his self-control, it seemed. "You in a _damn_ talkative mood today, ain't you? It ain't none of your concern. Do the work, an' stop askin' stupid questions. Simplicity itself." He went into his office and slammed the door. Finnick closed his with more care.

Crews moved slowly to the driver window and looked at Finnick. "Do you know what's goin' on?"

"Some of it."

"Can you tell me?"

Finnick did not look at her, preferring instead to stare at his wheel.

"Not yet," he said. He put on his glasses and mumbled, "Ciao," before starting the engine and pulling out and away from the garage.

Crews remained, standing very still, and watched him go.

…

The van slipped through well-worn channels, down the ten-lane arteries of the city towards the Sahara. Flats bled into condominiums, which flowed into luxury condominiums, and the better part of the Savannah district. Sand began to sweep in too. The centre of the city, where towers grouped like glass guards stood to attention, gleamed and rose high above to the east, and straight ahead, a heat haze had begun to blur the pastoral-coloured buildings into the vibrant orange hues of desert sand, creating an artistic smear above Finnick's dashboard.

Artificiality was unshakable here. The transition was gradual and guided as such to feel like a slow-burn amusement ride, one of the expensive ones with complex mechanical props and lavishly designed scenery. It was a surprise no mascot danced by the side of the road as people streamed in. Signs were bright and eager, readily highlighting the difference of a sandy city from a concrete one, and pointed to 'Great Attractions!' to take the family too. Or two grown adults looking for a dead drop.

Vincent's presence became apparent to Finnick again as he shifted in his seat. His bomber jacket was still on. His head rested in his paw, eyes half shut. He looked exhausted. More than he'd looked fifty minutes before, when, outside the Zealots stadium, he'd given a smile to Finnick and a set of heavily accented directions. Isolated yet again, this one packed somewhere inside a dune instead of ruins. No intermediaries this time. It was already shaping up to be a cleaner job. He hadn't spoken since.

External discretion persisted, as did an automatic switching of lanes and gaming of traffic along the highway. Finnick battled with his actions. He'd never imagined Potto to be such a jackass. Premonition had warned him, but no amount of observation had exposed it. It was almost shocking how little he'd learned across years of short exchanges and passing remarks until today. Potto was a jackass. Finnick should have followed his example.

Potto had used a more abrasive form of discretion. Evidently, it only mattered when you used it in the direst circumstance. Yet Finnick had felt for the bunny. The image of Her, of the _other_ Her that linked to Crews, was such a raw and unfiltered spring of emotion that Finnick could never have readied a proper response. It was like instinctually saving someone. Or re-living a moment for years when you couldn't. Rational discourse and logic had felt like flimsy cutouts of their true selves, and now they'd come back to berate Finnick for knocking them over. But he felt no remorse; they had abandoned him. A thought crashed into him and, in some small way, stuck; it was a reasonable response to help Crews. In doing so, he'd helped maintained the memory of Her.

"… _Today's Tom Clawyer he gets high on you,_

 _and the space he invades he gets by on you..."_

Finnick turned. "What?"

" _Quoi?"_

"You said something just then. Sung."

"I did?" Vincent chuckled. "I thought I was asleep."

"No, you sang a few lines of a song."

"What were they?"

"Tom Clawyer. The last part of the bridge." He hummed the melody, an action as innate as recalling his birthday.

"Ah! Tom Clawyer. A brilliant song, no?"

"Yeah. I mean-" Finnick began. "How do you know it?"

"From _Mush_ of course. Greatest band of all time."

Discretion be damned, Finnick thought. "Hell yeah."

Vincent laughed with delight. "You know them?"

"Best damn band in the whole world."

" _Incroyable!_ " he leaned over to give Finnick an appreciative shake of his paw. " _Incroyable_ ," he repeated. "You're a long-time fan?"

Finnick was grinning as well. "Since 92'"

Vincent whistled. "I cannot boast that much. I've been with them since 2006. I was fourteen."

"How'd you find them?"

"A record shop owned by some crazy mammal. I forget his name and the shop's. Ah, was it something like _Son et Espace_? I do not know. Anyway, I listened to 'Moving Cages' and was hooked from the beginning. You know the records you listen to in and out? Learn all the little things, details, from? That was my record. You?"

Finnick paused. "'Farewell to Cobras'. That was mine."

"Their best. No doubt."

"You really think so?"

"Of course."

Finnick suddenly felt in good company. "You know, I had a few recordins' of their old sets on tape in our flat. I used to watch them over and over. I used to watch each member. I always made sure to watch Lee twice. Watched his base. I must've seen some of those recordings thousands of times."

"I had the same thing but with Peart. Drum solos. I watched them far too many times to count."

"How'd a mammal from France get into _Mush_?"

Vincent shrugged and smiled. "Good music, no? I could've been from the moon and still enjoyed it." He sat up. "You see, in growing up in Bondy there were two types of music: hip-hop or underground hip-hop. Anything else was…" he made a dismissive sound. "So _Mush_ was a more, uh, personal sound y'know. You?"

"Yeah," Finnick said, "same here."

Then flew discussion about each little oddity of _Mush_. Fans collect smaller details, sort them, then arrange it all together to prove to one another how versed they are in a niche language of names, dates, and opinions. Finnick and Vincent traded anecdotes. First contact? Well, Vincent's was already apparent, but Finnick's was made after digging through old VHS tapes of ' _Mush Live!'_ his father had stacked away in some dusty corner of their flat. First cover? Vincent when he was fifteen, after sneaking into his school to crash a Pert solo on half-broken drum equipment before being caught. Finnick when he was two years younger, after stringing together a few notes on a busking guitar left unattended before being chased off. First concert? Both Finnick and Vincent had only caught them on their most recent _Time Machine_ tour. For Finnick, it was a mutual retrospect shared between the members; Neal, Pert and Lee had grown up with rock just as Finnick did. Though not precisely their age, he still felt legitimacy in celebrating a victory tour as a day-one fan would. Vincent's was more a reverence. His was of the idea of a song, or a sound, or a meaning, abstracted to those strange parts of the mind no one else can possibly know, then studied and turned throughout the years like memories of a great event. Age drew out new meaning. Finnick reasoned that Vincent's gauge of what _Mush_ 's sound, or, more importantly, what it meant to him, was what he had felt ten years prior. It was like sharing an education, or boot camp. Generally, the same theme and setting resulted in each memory they had of it, but the meaning was different.

Meanwhile, sand became more constant. Pastel-coloured buildings rose alongside a black, viscous-seeming tarmac, and the heat rose. Some grasp on the temperature was gradually moving up until they passed almost to the centre and a twist had seemingly broken the meter.

"… and you know YYZ, _oui_ , is about an airport?"

"The Morse-code for their hometown one, yeah."

"That's it," he said.

They were close to the centre now. All buildings kept low. Cooling a five-story was expensive enough, and the tax black hole in the district meant no city-provisioned lots could go above that limit anyway. Reaching high above like some theme park ride was Palm Centre, as decadent in costs as it was in maintenance. Some rich mammal owned it. One of the many around town. They passed boutiques Finnick had seriously considered stealing from, waited beside exotic sports cars and wide luxury sedans, and stopped at lights that, when mammals crossed, looked more like a new-age catwalk than a crosswalk.

"East of centre, out to the Dryfields Reserve," said Vincent. It was the first time since discussion begun that the topic had shifted away from _Mush_

They swung through the rich streets with richer names, moving slowly east with traffic.

"You said 'A Farewell to Cobra's' was your favourite?"

Finnick nodded.

"For the tracks or the sound?"

"A few tracks. Especially one."

" _Xanadu_?"

"Yeah."

Vincent nodded. " _Oui_ , it was my favourite too."

That needed some proper thought before discussion. The silence was permitted as they drove away from luxury, to narrower streets, lower buildings, and more impoverished shops. It didn't take long to get to the projects of the district – small, cramped, and hidden as they were. If you framed a camera right, Finnick thought, you could cheat it to look like some distant third-world country.

"Past here," Vincent said.

They pit-stopped at a dusty fuel station to pick up a reserve of water. The front windows had an orange tint. Beside them, a cleaner of some kind had stopped his van, the mammal leaning by the pump picking endlessly away at their phone. He wore a facemask and goggles. Vincent returned, and they moved further towards dunes and sand. Eventually, the houses bled entirely away until only a scraggy, boiling land baked by sun remained. The paved road ended. They parked in a small lot by a dune. Around them, pale cacti stood to watch.

Vincent shut his door. "I checked the weather. Forecast for today is one-oh-two. That's the low." He grimaced.

"Knew it'd pay off to be a fennec," Finnick said.

Vincent laughed.

The duo moved slowly up the dune in long, wading strides. At the top, Vincent already needed his first sip of water. The scene was something straight out of an oil-rich Arab nation. Glistening towers of white and gold stood over sand miles to their north, and between them, the Dryfeilds, an area kept in ecological suspension by the warmth wall far to their east, stretched without interruption. It was smaller than it looked. Maybe the odd mirage added a few miles. Still, that desolate sea seemed indomitable; a place where the wrong kind of mammal dried up and died. It was not that the city had created it. No, it had waited to be unearthed. The creeping, ebbing dunes had been moving and shifting long before any architects walked the land. But, contrary to the canals, this was contained desolation.

"Should be somewhere close to here. Look for signs of tracks."

"In sand?"

Vincent shrugged. "What I know is all I know. We'll find it."

Maybe, Finnick thought, but it would be a long time.

…

It had to be an hour or two past noon. The sun shouldered like a backpack in the desert, had seemingly raced across the sky. They'd searched as any thirsty adventures would, yet the will in Finnick to continue to delay, to spend as much time free from the gang, free from the city, as possible, gripped him.

About fifty meters ahead of him, straddling a dune like some sultan prince, Vincent cupped two paws over his eyes and scanned. Finnick decided that enough would eventually be enough.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Clawrence of Arabia!"

Vincent caught the call and laughed. He saluted Finnick and waded slowly towards him. After a time, one blurred outline was two in the desert. Finnick was hot and thirsty, but Vincent looked severely dehydrated. He'd drunk a total of three bottles now. Two were left. Finnick had only needed half of one. Adaptation still preceded civilisation, it seemed.

"That's funny," Vincent breathed, wiping a sand-and-sweat mixed forehead, "my brother would've made the exact same joke if he were here."

They decided a break was necessary. On the walk back to the van, Vincent continually lagged behind. He slipped at one point down the final dune and seemed to stay still for too long. When Finnick caught up to him, Vincent insisted he had died, and that if the restaurant were angry about their failure they'd have to come and get it themselves. Drag Arkady down here, he said, and see how he likes the heat.

Finnick pretended to revive him with two paws on the dead wolf's chest. When they made it to the lot, he collapsed onto the couch in the back of Finnick's Van, swigging on the final two water bottles as he went. He looked around and said, "This your, uh, tour bus?"

"Used to be."

"You were in a band?"

Finnick nodded.

"Called?"

" _Native_."

" _Native_. _J'aime ça_. What did you play?"

"Bass."

"I could tell. Just like Lee, eh?"

"Jus' like Lee."

"And the, uh, artwork on the side. That was for the band too?"

"Our debut album," Finnick sighed. "' _Popo & Itza'."_

"Sounds cool. Prog rock, _oui?"_

"Yeah."

Finnick sat by the back door, watching the line of shade and sun separate his paw into two complete shades. Looking up, no clouds collected, not even on the horizon, and it still seemed like an evening or more until the sun would hit the sand.

"We can move in a moment. I'm good."

Finnick nodded.

"Where's your bass?"

"I sold it," Finnick said.

"You did? Why?"

"I don't know. For the money. I guess I needed it."

"We always will, no?"

Finnick shrugged. "I thought I'd never use it again, never want to use it."

"Did the, uh, band think that?"

"We'd disbanded way before."

"Oh," Vincent said. He'd been lying down, breathing deep, heavy sighs and looking about with exhausted eyes. He sat up. "Well, I never drummed with anyone but myself. You're lucky."

"Nah I ain't," Finnick said. After a moment he shook his head and repeated, "I ain't."

Vincent got up. He had to bend slightly to fit. He gestured to the basin and said, "This work?"

"Yeah, but it's stiff as all hell."

Vincent wrung the handle of the faucet, and after a few stagnant turns, warm water sputtered out of the tank. He put some on his paws and wiped his face down. He said, "I would love to listen to some _Mush_ now. After talking about it so much."

"Their stuff is in the cabinet by your knee."

He flipped it open, took out a stack of five or so CD's, and rifled through.

"Ah! _Moving Cages_ , _Counterpaws_..." he read as he went. Then he smiled and turned to show one to Finnick. There it was. The mammal slumped in the throne, surrounded by rubble. " _A Farewell to Cobras_. May I?"

"Okay," Finnick said.

He got up and took the CD from Vincent, hopping into the front, starting his engine, and popping the case open before the player. With delicacy reserved only for the most prized of things, he deftly slid the disc into the slot, handling it only at the sides with two claws like he was holding an ancient, collectors-edition record.

The track spun up. Out of the speakers plucked the first acoustic guitar, and with it came the image of himself at his bass, challenged by Josh to learn and cover the simple melody in just two hours. It was far simpler than he'd let on. Synths chimed in, as did light soupçons of xylophone notes, until electric guitars, a drumbeat, and Lee's bass exploded in at the minute and eight seconds mark.

Lee's wailing voice began. The song, like any good _Mush_ track, weaved and danced around its core melody, led masterfully but Peart's ever-changing rhythm. Then, like any really good _Mush_ track, the solo kicked in. At the three minute and fifty-second mark, Finnick found it impossible not to nod his head in time to the beat.

"I love that part," Vincent said.

Finnick smiled. He did too.

 _"Cities full of hatred, fear and lies…"_

 _"…withered hearts and cruel, tormented eyes."_

Then the song jumped into its outro, slowing gradually with Peart's strikes until only the acoustic hit remained and glittering symbols fell to silence.

Then the next track started with a low, quiet synth note, and Finnick reflexively hit pause. He ejected the CD and put it back in the packet.

"You're right," Vincent said. "'Xanadu' is too long. We're running out of daylight."

On their way back up the dune, Vincent seemed recharged, "I remember listening to 'Xanadu' in Paris one night. I was in Bondy, I think, watching from my window some kid younger than me on the street tuck up for the night under a storefront. I thought that anywhere was better than where I was. I had it on my old MP3 – the only expensive thing I had – and I remember thinking specifically that Xanadu, what Lee was singing about, _was_ this City."

Finnick left that to stir for a long while. At the top of the dune, the scene remained oppressive and orange, but the sun seemed to be at the beginnings of its end. As such, the light was less harsh, and the heat felt less like a molten metal shower, and more like the waiting rooms of a foundry.

Finnick said, "I always imagined it was the outside of the city."

Vincent looked at him. Finnick glanced up, then back down.

"My little brother would've made the same Clawrence of Arabia joke too," Finnick said.

"What's his name?"

"Locke. What about yours?"

"Emmanuel," Vincent said. "I miss him."

"Yeah," Finnick said. "Same here."

"Everything he said was true. Maybe sometimes I didn't like it, but without him, I think I'm getting lost here."

After that, it took only minutes to find the package. It had been under the cacti ten meters in front of the van, away from the Dryfields rather than towards it. But it didn't surprise Finnick. He'd spotted it hours before.

…

It was early morning again. Finnick ran amok of his sleep schedule and, unwillingly, it capitulated to the demands of his work. The restaurant held only a skeleton crew. Vincent and the lynx, Mishel, sat at a table in the centre, and two lions that Finnick had never seen before, one male and one female, sat at the bar. There was no bar staff, or Arkady or Vlad, nor was there a cryptic white fennec to impart general anxieties and fears, and as such, a meditative quiet gripped the hall, like downtime in a boot camp or the staff-room of a hospital during quiet shifts.

Cigarette smoke hung above the wolf and the lynx. They exchanged what seemed like a serious topic, but Finnick couldn't hear any specifics. Mishel looked positively animated though, which intrigued Finnick. Her stance, evidenced by the morning before and his first visit, had seemed inherently withdrawn. It almost didn't fit her appearance to be interested in what another mammal was saying. Vincent caught sight of Finnick. He smiled.

" _Salut_ Finnick. Come join us."

Finnick pulled up a chair.

Vincent pulled out the pay for the dead drop and slid it across the table. He said, "You've already met Mishel, _oui_?"

"Not in person."

Mishel bowed her head slightly. "Vincent here tells me he likes you. Should I like you?"

Finnick took the money and shrugged, "You'll be the judge of that, I guess."

"Yes. _I guess_ I will." She blew out smoke lazily. "But don't shrug too much. It damages the shoulders."

"Well, don't smoke too much," Finnick said. "Damages the lungs."

She smiled at that. "What do you think then? This place, eh? A lot different from the street corners, I assume."

"A lot."

"Did we make you feel welcome?"

"Sure."

"That's nice," she said. "I always think you should try the best for people. Even when they're not suited to a particular thing or a particular place." The tip of her cig went red. Through the haze, she stared at Finnick with assessing eyes. "Just like those canals the other day. Awful business, from what I heard. Mr Joseph didn't seem to help much."

"He tried."

"Yes, I'm sure. However, by Mikie's account, he sounded unsuited to the task."

Finnick stared.

"The way he handled Mikie's friends… he was very upset about that. We may no longer be able to deal with them ever again. So, by my best guess, Mr Joseph did seem rather unsuited."

"Yeah," Finnick said. "He was."

"Fascinating. And he comes off as so clever, doesn't he? Oh well. I suppose looks can be deceiving."

Vincent said, "Maybe we need better preparation, no? I mean, today, scratching around a desert for some tiny box. Ah! It was pure luck that we found it."

"Luck is a funny thing," Mishel said. "But I don't think Corey suffered from a lack of it. He lacked in other areas." She looked at Finnick again. "Interesting that you saw fit to solve violence with violence, Mr Southsand."

"I did what I had to."

"Spoken like a true soldier."

Then passed what Finnick learned to be by the numbers business talk. Take-ins, expenses. How the laundering was going. Who was closest to Arkady, who they could buy, who they couldn't. The more common talk was divulged as well. Transportation of goods, ease of access. Finnick was even included. Where did he feel was the most accessible, yet least patrolled? What areas of the city had the most direct links? If felt more like a discussion of the weather than cold business, but nothing close to congenial was given by Mishel to Vincent and, in particular, to Finnick.

Her life, with all of who she truly was and what she truly wanted, was locked away behind miles of thick doors and barriers. An ultimate shield. As a fellow craftsman of such a process, Finnick couldn't help but appreciate it. She seemed uninhibited by it, talking as though it gave her freedom as opposed to restriction. That was a real skill. She appeared to pass it as common knowledge, an unfortunate fact of life, that no one in the business would ever be her friend, nor would they ever learn who she was. Now that was confidence, Finnick thought.

This talk continued until Mishel stood up and tucked her chair in. She parted with a farewell fit for acquaintance and, after making to the coatrack and wrapping an expensive looking scarf around her, ascended the stairs. The closing door rang out like a gong.

"Come," Vincent said, nodding to the bar. "Let's meet the lions."

Little and Henya, they were called. From the south-west coast, real nice state with the beaches and the large suburbs and the drugs. Little had said they'd come cross-country, and, like, tried to play it safe, but it apparently was too damn easy to steal from lonely fuel stations. A spree was, like, therefore inevitable. And they hadn't hurt anyone. They hadn't killed anyone, at least.

Finnick sipped his scotch.

"I forget myself," Little said. He shook Finnick's paw. The strength of it was immense. "Henya here got no larynx. Can't talk. She can hear though."

He figured Little and Henya could easily go by Loud and Quiet. The lioness had written 'Hi' on a notepad page and showed it to Finnick. Her eyes radiated intelligence. Little's seemed unfocused and dense.

"Don't happen to know, like, ASL, do you?" he asked.

Finnick shook his head.

"Well, that ain't true. Shakin' your head means 'no' in sign language. You got the basics."

They didn't need much longer. Vincent talked about some work in the docks with them, and before long Henya had shaken paws with Finnick while Little already made for the exit. An engine from some turbocharged sports car exploded after they'd left the restaurant.

"Nice folks."

Vincent smirked at the remark. "Well Henya's very smart," he paused in thought for a moment. "They… do the tough work. They're necessary." Vincent gestured to the stage. "You could rig a good set up there, don't you think? A drum set, some mic stands. A guitar."

"A bass."

" _Oui_ , a bass. Maybe soon you'll have enough money to buy another."

"Okay," Finnick said, looking into his drink. "If I buy a bass, you'll buy an _Apex_ drum kit. Agreed?"

Vincent laughed. " _D'accord_."

"Hey," A voice called.

Finnick shifted to see Tyler standing in the middle of the restaurant. How he'd entered so silently, he didn't know, but he did know that the distinct plummeting feeling he felt in his stomach wasn't motivated by scotch. The wolf wore the same red jacket, the same shifting eyes. Finnick turned back around.

"Oh new guy, no way!" Tyler said.

Vincent motioned to the bar. "Come and sit Tyler. Me and Finnick are having a round, then leaving."

"So early? Shame," he had a provincial and relatively standard accent, but his voice was disturbed by an airy, indistinct and untraceable register. Something about it, some small slight thing within the intones and cadence, didn't sound right – didn't sound stable. He sat right between Finnick and Vincent. He reached right over the bar and took out a bottle of clear liquid.

He leaned in to speak to Finnick. " _Zmirnoff_ , jus' like your white pal." He opened the bottle and sipped. Exhaling, he sealed it shut again. "You two spoke already? You talk to him about fennec shit, huh?"

"Yeah, about fennec shit," Finnick said.

"Perfect," Tyler said. "We all need someone to talk to, right? At least, that's what I think. Don't you think we should always talk to someone Vinny?"

Vincent nodded, keeping his eyes on Finnick.

"I'm fuckin' pleased at that." He hit Finnick on the back. "Hey! I know. Let's talk some more. I did the job you and Arkady asked." He directed this at Vincent.

"Good work," he replied.

"Yeah, that's what the money said. Didn't hear it from big boss though. I mean, I'll give him a break, right? Of course, I should. Big boss got a lot more on his plate. We're talking investment firms, stock firms, and technology firms. Plus more besides. I mean, it's a lot for one simple, home-grown humdrum mammal to handle right? At least I think so. I think, y'know, I think that the more a mammal splits his attention and distracts himself from us the better. Who are we but the scavengers right? Trash. Fuck, I mean, I don't blame him. It's a business after all."

Finnick didn't look at him. Vincent audibly sighed, and poured himself another. Tyler turned to the Frenchman, incredulous look plastered on his face.

"What?"

"'What?' Fuckin' don't 'what' me."

"What, Tyler?"

"'What?' I work my tail off doin' the shit neither you nor big boss'll touch, and you sigh like I'm your twice removed uncle talkin' about his stamp collection? I'll kill you, asshole."

"Kill me then."

Tyler laughed and hit the bartop. "I know," he said suddenly. "Let's tell some stories. All camp-fire like." He turned to face Finnick and nudged him expectantly. "Go on, ol' fennec. Tell us some stories from the streets. From Happytown, when you were slingin' and hustlin' and showin' the world what foxes are made of."

Finnick looked right at Tyler. "Damn," he said, face flat. "Forgot em' all."

"Well that's ok, I got one about a job I did two weeks ago. You'll like this one, for real." He cleared his throat. "Me an' Mikhail - you met him, right?"

Finnick nodded.

"Well, me an' Mikie, we're pinned for this job. Now, big boss says someone from one of his places is stayin' too late, workin' too hard. He says that the other day he seen him tracking through old company records, lookin' specifically for tax returns, tax re-sends, tax whatever-the-fucks, right into the real early hours. Now, the way big boss laid It out, you got two possibilities there. One, he's a really swell hard workin' employee who's makin' sure that all of his big bosses books and neat an' nice so the taxman won't get on his tail. Two, he's a rat for the taxman himself. Now, the big boss is real smart, so it don't take long for him to find the fuckin' rat's name, the fuckin' rats address, and the fuckin' rats motive. Guess what he was, go on. Say it, Mr Fennec."

Finnick said, "He was a rat."

Tyler smacked the bar top for the second time. "Bang on the motherfucker! Vinny, this one's smart. They don't teach fennecs like him anymore."

Vincent remained silent.

"Right, right, so me and Little, we get contacted. The big boss tells us, 'hey, we got a rat, boys. We got a rat. We need to get him talkin'.' You know, he may not say it like that word for word, but he knows we know what to do. Me and Little can't wait! We track this guy, we tail him, we fuckin' wait outside his house till around about now in the morning. Oh boy, the thrill of hunting. You'd love it! There's no one else around, dead of night, in this shitty neighbourhood where people wouldn't bat an eye if you let a round loose. We bus' open the door. An' guess what! They're fuckin' _fennecs_! The rat is a fennec! We couldn't believe our luck."

The absolute glee in his voice was repulsive. Finnick considered exit strategies. Then Vincent spoke up.

"Tyler please shut up. You have told this already. It's late. I'm tired."

"Oh _Boo-hoo_ I'm tired! So we bust into this place, he's got his kid. Comes to the door. Acts all tough like. Easy to knock out cold, no sweat. Same with his wife, and -"

"Tyler," Vincent said.

"What, asshole? What?"

"Shut up and get out. I'm tired."

Tyler tilted his head slightly, then, after a pause, nodded. "I see," he said. He nodded again, this time slower. "I see." He turned to Finnick and said, "I'll tell you the rest later."

Finnick finished his drink. "You heard him."

Tyler smiled then. He smiled, gleefully, knowingly. Finnick could see the eyes mapping and planning already. He knew evil eyes when he saw them.

"Have a nice date you two," he said. Then he left as quickly and silently as he'd entered.

Moments after he'd left, Vincent said that if there were ever a surer way to end a night, _that_ story was it. Finnick silently assented. As they packed the remaining glasses, stacked barstools on the bar, and moved out the back exit of the hall, Finnick thought that the restaurant looked strangely unwanted, like a crown in a display case. Or a dark, empty paradise.


	10. Ten

**TEN**

Two weeks was all it took to routinise the work. The job ultimately demanded very little, it seemed. Finnick fitted perfectly into a system that demanded silence, driving and punctuality. Not once did any of the members give off a hint of dissatisfaction. The first few days had indeed been anomalies in a grander, more boring world of organised associated crime. Those people who know people who do the dull things necessary for the distant crime boss to make his due. The training wheels had come off by day three. After the desert expedition, both Vincent and Arkady had decided to do away with the nonsense of hunting product down. Instead, the brown bear who had greeted Finnick on his first night was assigned to him, as were specific locations with specific instructions every day that he awoke to the buzz of his cell.

Kanter, the bear, was a Russian so committed to remaining Russian that he'd barely learnt a lick of English since arriving however many months ago. The total summary of what he and Finnick exchanged could be summed up by turning signals. The bear waited, got out, got back in with a package, got out at the restaurant, and got back in to repeat the process a day later. No theatrics. No story time, music forums, family anecdotes or petty outbursts. Finnick appreciated it. Of all the mammals to ride with him, this one was nothing if not pragmatic. In fact, he was almost nothing at all.

So Finnick drove as required, opened the door when necessary, drank with Vlad a few times, smiled at Vincent when he saw him, followed poorly worded texts and wondered faintly where Mike was and what the important thing he had given him was. All the while as he drove he felt the walls lowering around him.

They currently had fallen his height. He still had to jump to see over them. Beyond was darkness, a rising tide of chaos waiting to spring up and consume him as it had those flailing days between meeting Vlad in the parking lot and getting out of his van in Vyborg Square. Finnick could only describe it as loose footing. Planting one foot down only to see an old friend sprint down the road with your stolen cash. Kicked out onto the curb after planting another. That same feeling was set to return on the horizon. The restaurant's friction invited it.

Arkady was either too familiar or too distant. Vincent was almost too clever, and Finnick respected him yet feared those moments where a gleam caught his eye and he looked almost Napoleonic in his ambition. Mishel kept her affairs so discreet Finnick believed even the name she had given was a lie intended to misdirect. Corey had been a wreck ever since the rainforest, tipping up late, mumbling too much, and keeping his head down like a scolded child. Tyler's antics, aided by the cool meanness of Mikhail, increased daily. Like a sponge, he soaked up the general fear and misery of life, welcomed them as his comrades, and set about squeezing them out around the restaurant – never a friend by choice; feared rather than respected.

Vlad continued to retain a brilliant hope. He set about his wide wingspan to reach across and hold both sides of the ship together. The mediator, leader, negotiator, practical savant and all around helper, he did his best to soak up and distribute the general fun and merriment of life where and when he could. Finnick smiled at him, adored him, and pushed his chips over to the over side of the table. Good intentions could only do so much. The tide was rising beyond his well-meaning control. Forces in the restaurant, driven by a tangible friction, built it higher. Finnick knew that, soon, he'd have to return to the embrace of chaos or simply choose to live ignorant of the future and remain with the gang. Both were dangerous choices.

Now another choice presented itself. On the flip-phone, Vlad really hadn't been lying about the car racing game. It was amazing how about fifty stilted pixels could enamour Finnick. If he picked up the second boost, he could save time and possibly overtake Vlad's score, but that lead to him lacking longevity for the rest of the race and missing drift points on the two corners. The black-square spectators cycled through two different poses, egging him on, pressuring him. Finnick decided to pick up the boost. He crashed immediately and fell a full thirty points short of Vlad's score. He looked up.

Still nothing in the park. The bridge over the murky lake was still there, the rusted swings and playset were still there, the payphone with its broken receiver were still there. Only his brother was absent.

The phone buzzed with a text. Finnick flipped it open. Whatever glimpse he'd hoped to have caught of Locke, and whatever he'd hoped to have said to him, were dashed. Finnick started his van, pulled away from Jessica Park, and began to follow the directions on the text.

 **…**

Vlad was a welcome surprise. He opened the door with gusto on Fifth and Mane Street, then directed Finnick to the docks where the next package would be.

"Arkady wanted me here to be a… 'per-formance reviewer'." He struggled with the term. "His words."

"Employee ethics an' all that?"

"Sure."

"How am I doin'?"

Vlad chuckled. "Not any better than you could be."

"So, good?"

" _Da_ , very good."

Finnick wondered how the metrics involved with a drug mule, and he imagined Arkady flipping over a 'Days without Informant' calendar in his office.

"And how about my English, huh?" Vlad boasted

"Yeah buddy," Finnick replied, "I was gonna say. Damn impressive," his childlike enthusiasm was contagious.

"I learn from Mishel mostly. Very, very smart. Then I go home and watch the reality TV. Amazing! You put the average _gopnik_ on a show to perform and millions watch. He is terrible, then the audience still cheers. I love this city."

Finnick didn't know what a 'gopnik' was, but it seemed to delight Vlad.

After leaving off the interstate, Finnick swung through the industrial sector that formed a kind of buffer between the rest of the district and the port. Heavy traffic was pouring in and out of it to get to or depart from the docks. Truckers with little care or patience to the rules dominated the road. An unloaded semi pulled in front of Finnick on a junction, and he let loose on the horn. The driver flipped the bird at him without even looking his way.

"So Revy's been cool?" He remembered the last talk, something about art.

"She's kept painting. It has had a longer life than most of her hobbies. Two weeks? Two years for her," he said. "Kanter helps her."

"Kanter? The bear?"

"The very same. He loves painting. You didn't know?"

Finnick shook his head.

"He mostly uses water-colour. His apartment is filled with, uh, canvas. Art, yes? Some of them are beautiful, really," Vlad nodded. "He has a good soul. More so than he lets on."

They drove some more in silence. Drove was an overstatement. Stopped and started. There were too many stop signs, give way signs, and not enough proper infrastructure leading to the port. That combined with the tolls bred the worst kind of stilted, slow-moving and frustrating traffic. But the day was mild. Sunny, but not too warm. Comfortable. Finnick still wore the aviators.

Vlad said, "Sometimes, I still feel bad for the first two jobs."

Finnick looked at him, then back at the road. "What d'you mean?

"Ah, I don't know. The stupidity. Especially the jungle."

"Was outta your control."

"Maybe the contacts. But not the people. Mikhail was too close to the thugs there. Corey too distant. Bad mix. And the desert."

Finnick shrugged. "That was okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, just borin'."

"Vincent said he enjoyed your company. You shared common interests."

"We did."

"He's been excited about something lately. He has been in lifted spirits. It is good to see."

Finnick said, "He and Mishel are close."

Vlad smiled in what seemed to be an appreciative way. "Two very smart people, I'm not surprised."

"Almost," Finnick said, "too smart, you think?"

Vlad frowned. "No. Why?"

Finnick shrugged. "Nothin'. Never mind."

Things got more industrial. Finnick's van went from an inconsistency to an outright distraction. Semis dominated the roads. Vlad gave general directions to the east port, the side with the old collapsed crane, which was more run-down and less stifling in the toll stations and tight two-lane roads. That the city had one of the busiest ports in the world was almost a non-factor where Vlad and Finnick were going. But for miles Finnick saw the multi-coloured stacks of containers, huge cargo cranes and immense tankers shifting tons out to sea or moored up like great dormant beings.

Finnick came to a toll both, but the post was empty and the bar was raised. He still slowed down. Maybe it would lower again.

"Don't stop," Vlad said. "We paid for him to take a break."

Finnick resumed, gliding past a few containers down a narrow and unmarked road.

"Just here," Vlad said.

Finnick parked in front of an empty warehouse. Containers bordered them. A great dock crane stood over them. The sea was not visible, nor was the rest of the city. There was no ocean breeze, just flat heated air baked in concrete and metal. Clashes, sirens and calls of the docks rang out. A backing up semi here, and moving crane there. Every so often the distant rumble of a ship horn. Vlad got out and pushed on an old rusted door standing just beside the now unused loading bay of the warehouse.

A shame. Things could always be different. The windows could be patched up. Business and money could direct its attention back here, specifically here, and renew a place now serving as an illicit cubbyhole.

Things could always be different. The question was shaping itself in Finnick's mind. Throughout the drive, it was gaining life, form and intent. Could anyone displace the past?

No. So why set to fix the future? It stood over Finnick and Locke as an almost inherent, agreed upon reason why contact between them was not worth the effort. It had been ten years ago, possibly more, since he'd last seen him, yet they lived and worked in the same city. It was a testament to the anonymity of urban life, and to a determination within each brother to treat the past as a solid, undeniable force of dictation that could not be displaced. Thus, because things could not be resolved as they were from the past, the future stood to be just as inexorable.

What could Finnick change about his brother, and vice versa? Conceivably, what was important or necessary about him? That he was family had meant nothing when he had avoided him. Only now, when sudden isolation boxed him in, Finnick felt that same need to strike out for tangible ground to stand on. Even then, Locke was far from tangible. He didn't know what he was doing now. He knew he was alive, but beyond that, he either forgot the details or simply didn't know them. Fate, borne of the past, wrapped them up in an eternal coil that would unwind until death. Finnick knew that Locke felt the same. Neither Southsand could interpose on this. Change things. They could only hope that things had been different.

Yet some new spark within him changed the phrase into the present tense. He now believed so. He knew he did. There was a reason why he'd stopped in front of that park, watched for his brother as if on a stakeout. Things could change. They could. Why did he believe this?

Why had Vlad been gone for so long?

Finnick sat up. The pickup process, especially for a small package, is in and out. Minutes, maybe less. He grabbed the handle and decided to wait maybe one minute more before checking. He didn't want to leave the van alone. That had always meant a job had gotten off its intended course.

Vlad reappeared from the same door.

His weight was shifted to the right side of his body. He had been attacked. Badly attacked. His face was bruised, red-scarred and dripping with blood so profusely that he had to spit out a great glob of phlegm and crimson to take a deep breath in. All Finnick could do was open the door and wait for him to stagger over.

As soon as he was in Finnick raced away, swinging around container stacks and building the quickest possible route to Vyborg. Vlad's breathing was steady, but laboured and loud. He wiped his face constantly, enough to reveal a cluster of claw marks and split skin that tapped deep. His jacket was covered in blood. His t-shirt was torn and stained. Finnick asked him if he felt anything broken, any cracked ribs. He scanned the tiger whenever possible. Nothing on the neck. No sign of a claw-spike to the heart. Even if something more insidious threatened Vlad, he knew that going to a hospital to check was impossible.

Vlad told him in fragmented, strenuous sentences that the only thing the four mammals had broken was his right ankle. He had broken one of them worse. What amazed him was that, even through the pain, when he smiled in a grim, slightly amused way, Finnick still saw Vlad's blue eyes shimmer.

 **…**

"This is an affront, an inexcusable attack. Do we not get the message, Arkasha?" Mishel said.

"Yes, we do."

"Then we must get involved. This cannot simply be left to The Dogs. They are weak and immobile. If we try to move them beyond their comfortable regions, they'll demand higher bonuses and hazard pay."

"I know."

Much to Finnick's displeasure, a round table had assembled in the middle of the restaurant to determine a best course of action. For some reason he had been included. That there were so many faces keen to weigh in already brewed an anxiety, a bad taste, within Finnick. Maybe it was his scotch.

Vlad seemed to make do with the current arrangement of bandages and stiches. Cook, the polar bear head chief, and Josef the bartender had made something of a surgery duo. Cleaning him up in the kitchen took the better part of an hour. The doctors had concluded that Vlad showed no injuries that were a serious cause for concern, but the ankle would hurt for a while. After denying painkillers, Vlad had sat at the table and had pressed for the discussion to start immediately.

From Finnick's left, Vincent, Mishel, Mikhail, Tyler, Kanter, Arkady and all the way back round to his right, Vlad, sat and listened. Cojo hovered nearby, behind and partially obscured by Vlad. Josef seemed content to clean glasses, Keedvin, the small, nervous wolf Finnick had but noticed on his first night in the restaurant, seemed content with staring at the bar top. Cook had left after helping Vlad. Mike was not present.

Mishel was smoking. She was characteristically relaxed. "You've let The Dogs play clean-up for the last three times now."

"I know them," Vincent said, "they are getting excited. They want a higher cut."

Arkady said, "Yes, I understand. We keep them in the dark for this ordeal."

Tyler was fidgeting, "So we get to find who did a number Vladdie?"

Mikhail said, "I hope so. You said you broke one of them?"

Vlad nodded.

"Then we can kill the rest, and leave him to suffer."

Tyler grinned.

"Either way, it is our duty, no?" Vincent said. "Whoever leaked the package needs to be found and dealt with; whoever attacked Vladhim also needs to be dealt with."

"We have nothing to go on," Cojo said in a small voice.

This gave pause until Mishel looked at Finnick and said, "You are sure you saw nothing outside the warehouse."

"What I saw is what I saw."

Mishel sighed, "that is to say, please tell us again in extreme detail."

"We passed the booth about three turns before pulling beside the drop point, and-"

"Further back," Vincent said. "You saw no tailing vehicles? Nothing followed you?"

"If I had I would've ditched the drop."

"So, you pass the booth. Nobody there, as planned?"

"Yeah, nobody. Nothin' weird in there either."

Vincent said, "Who is this attendant? Who paid him?"

"I did," Mikhail said.

"All you did was give him money and tell him to take the day off?"

Mikhail nodded.

"Then he is a moot point," Mishel said. "I already considered this. The information he had was meant to keep him in the dark."

"So?" Vincent said, "He could've phoned someone. Reported it."

"He couldn't have known where the location was. His booth leads to an entire block of empty warehouses and containers."

Mikhail said, "I can talk to him if needed."

Mishel shook her head. "He won't give you anything useful."

"I can kill him."

"Then he'll give you even less."

Vincent turned to Finnick again. "On the approach, did you see something? Uh, any fresh tire marks?"

"Even if there are any new ones I ain't distinguishin' them from the old," Finnick replied.

"What did you see when you were waiting?"

"Not a thing. If anythin' at all changed, or moved, or drove in when I was waiting in front of that warehouse, I ain't seen it."

"And nothing on the way out I imagine."

"Was drivin' too quick to catch a glimpse of anything."

Vincent scratched his chin. Mishel put out the end of a straight into a nearby ashtray and rubbed her eyes. There was a surprising attentiveness. Each of them, even Tyler, showed a visible thoughtfulness, a consideration of outcome and possibility.

Mishel said, "The mammals. Four of them?"

Vlad nodded.

"What kind?"

"Two tigers, a fox and a rhino," Vlad replied.

"A rhino?" Mikhail said.

"He broke the ankle."

"And a fucking fox," Tyler chuckled.

"A red fox," Vlad said. "He tried to stay back but I hurt him."

"Their leader, then," Mishel said.

"I cannot say, the…" He trailed off and sighed. It did not seem to be anxiety or fear that halted him. Something more like exhaustion.

"Talk in Russian if it makes it easier."

Vlad nodded. He spoke for some time, maybe a minute, then fell silent and closed his eyes.

Mishel translated. "Four mammals, species like he has already said. They attacked him exactly where the package was meant to be which, obviously, wasn't there. They were not armed. There were no words exchanged. None of them spoke, not even to one another. Vlad did not speak to them either. He thinks they held back," she spoke to Vlad in Russian briefly. "He _knows_ they held back. He thinks they weren't very experienced, but even a drunk mob of four could've done more damage to a single mammal than they did. And, lastly, they wore nothing special or significant, just plain shirts and pants. Nothing distinguishing about them. They stopped immediately after Vlad knocked the fox to the ground. They left out of the south exit."

"Not armed?" Vincent said.

"No. Not there to kill. There to send a message," she said. Then she looked at Arkady, "That needs a response."

"And holding back, huh?" Tyler mused.

Mishel shrugged. "That's what he said."

"This city is full of pussies," Tyler snarked. Mikhail seemed amused; the rest of the table did not. Especially Arkady.

"Why were they even there?" Finnick spoke almost as if to himself. "No bats or nothin', not there to put him out of commission. Ain't use their claws to kill. Didn't even let fully loose."

"Seems like they weren't expecting someone as capable as Vlad," Mishel replied.

"Why even stick around for someone in the first place then?"

Vincent shook his head. "We can argue details of what happened until the seas dry up. What we must do is think about how we will respond. The mammals must be amateurs, easy to find. If we-"

"May I?" Arkady pushed his chair back and stood up.

The table turned to attention.

He looked at Vincent. "You seem dead set on retaliation. You speak of it as if it is a forgone conclusion. Now, this leaves me confused in two ways. First, because it seems to me you think you can do something out of your own accord without consulting me. Second, because it makes me think you wish to expose us as some kind of power move."

The mood dropped. Finnick felt the entire side of the table to his left tense up.

"What do you think this is?" He did not ask this as a rhetorical question. "Look around. What do you think this is?"

"Tell me," Vincent said with an icy gaze.

"A smuggling operation. A postal service for illicit gains submerged deep into bureaucracy and laundered investment. The bottom prop in a house of cards." He leaned forward, stressing every word. "This is _not_ your playground. This is not your place to play criminal politic." He looked at Mikhail. "Who do you think you are, declaring hits, calling for murder? A Chechen thug?"

"This is weakness," Mishel said.

"No, this is rationality. But do please tell me what you think the opposite of weakness is."

"Growing a fucking pair," Tyler said.

Kanter rose his massive frame to face Tyler.

"You talk and act like a child, Tyler. Some days I wonder if you have the brain of one too," Arkady snarled. "Be quiet, and do not speak out of turn again."

This seemed to defuse the wolf. He had no response and could only sit there stewing. It was interesting to see him compromised. Arkady motioned to Kanter, who sat down.

"Not only will we not do the unspeakable idiocy of 'a response', we will no longer discuss the matter of investigating this at all."

Vincent stood up. Silenced ruled for a fleeting moment.

"What?" Arkady said.

Vincent measured himself. "This is a targeted attack. They didn't kill Vlad, but they could have, because they wanted him to sit here and bleed while we cowered back. Whoever it is, however clumsy and amateur they are, they are out for territory. Do you really want to know what this is?"

Arkady stared.

" _This_ is not another one of your clean businesses. This is not a game that you play fair. You cannot shake on things with these mammals, because when you extend your arm they will pull it close and run a claw along your wrist. We must show strength in order to survive. The jungle has aired out a dirty name on you already," Finnick sensed Cojo shift beside him slightly, "The Dogs are an unpopular choice of muscle. The stakes are blood. Death. You have a mammal of yours bleeding here, right beside you, and you have already decided without consulting him? _Merde_ , and you talked about forgone conclusions."

Vincent sat down. A heavy silence ruled.

"Retaliation would be a silly thing," Vlad said.

"And we still have no leads, despite the nice speech," Cojo mumbled.

Mikhail chuckled, "The cheetah runs his mouth yet again."

"Enough," Vlad snapped at Mikhail. "More than… 'leads'," He looked down at his lap while speaking. Defeated and soulless in voice and body. "We could find out who it was. I could. But we add violence with more violence. Nothing that will help us will come of it. Nothing good."

" _Drug_ ," Mikhail addressed Vlad, "this shows cowardice. They will prey upon us more for it."

"Does it? Does it not show a worse flaw to seek them out? To me it shows a bloody mouth that can be… how do you say… exploited. We hit back at the first hint of danger. You talked about the Jungle. Should we repeat it? Force Finnick here to bring his bat to another meeting with contacts? With all due respect, my friend."

"Don't mention it," Finnick mumbled.

"Such acts are bad for business," Vlad said.

"Losing product is also bad for business." Mishel said.

"A small loss. They may not have even taken it."

"We can't know for certain."

"When did your people put it there? A week ago? The scavengers, they love the empty warehouses and such. They take anything they find."

"What if they beat you again? What if they try to kill you, instead of just harming? Don't you fear for your own sake?"

Vlad shrugged. "No, not for my own." He took a longer pause, then nodded, "For us all, yes. I see no future in this kind of approach. _Da_ , I am content to let this go. The proper response is not as easy as you make it seem to be, and I have been beaten worse for less."

He turned his attention to Mikhail, began a sentence with " _Drug_ ," then finished it in Russian. Mikhail seemed to accept whatever Vlad said impassively, considering it, but not responding to it.

Prompted by stares from the non-Russians, Mishel begrudgingly translated again. "'Friend, your thoughts are too bloody. Our country was ruled by bloody mammals, and suffered for it.'"

Vlad said, "It is so. We stop this thoughts before it kills us."

Arkady had sat back down. "Then it's settled. There will be no retaliation. No investigation. We will take more precaution in the future. Leave if you can, stay if you have business," He looked at Mishel, Tyler, Mikhail and Vincent in turn. "I do not want to hear another word of this, understand?"

Finnick had never seen a group disperse faster. Most immediately left the restaurant. Mishel and Mikhail were gone in a blink. Tyler could barely contain his disgust on the way out. Finnick only caught one glimpse of Vincent's dark face as he left, but he saw something in his eyes that spelled out doom. Arkady left, Kanter followed. Cojo had skulked off to the bar, and left soon after Mikhail did. Vlad sat with his paws in his laps. He turned to Finnick.

"What are you gonna tell Revy?" Finnick asked.

"I cannot tell her the truth," Vlad said. Then he chuckled humourlessly through a grimace. "My brother would hate that."

"Hate what?"

"Oh, the lying to family. And the weakness. 'Never avoid a fight baby brother', he would always say. 'They are all too fun to miss.' He got more than his fair share in the war. He did."

"Is he gone?"

Vlad nodded.

"D'you miss him?"

"Like today was the day after the funeral, yes. Yes I do."

Vlad's face was very pale. Finnick had never seen him so withdrawn.

"Of course," he said, "Arkady will want me to look into this, uh, matter anyway."

Finnick frowned. "You think so?"

" _Da_. We may not retaliate but remaining in the dark is foolish."

"Then why keep it from them? Tyler, Mishel, Mikhail, Vincent. Why not tell them?"

Vlad looked down in his lap for a while. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully. "This stays between me and you."

Finnick nodded.

Vlad continued, "Arkady has his notions. The question of whether I believe them to the full, or do not believe them, does not matter. I owe him too much to dismiss them."

Finnick considered this for a while. Mike's sentiment echoed in his mind. If the house was divided against itself in the ways Finnick currently believed, something bad was coming.

"I'll make time to visit Revy soon," Finnick said. "I promise."

"Please do, _moy drug_. She is my reason for life."


	11. Eleven

**ELEVEN**

In the morning, something close to a breeze moved through streets of the savannah district. It was as though early rises were rationed fresh air. A quiet reminder of nature before the city rose and stomped out its carbon, fumes, and smog. Soon the breeze would dissipate. The traffic would push it away. Heated air rising from subway grates would dilute the mix. So Finnick had both windows down, parked maybe two or three spaces over from yesterday, facing the park.

White vapour trails were the only things to intrude on the sky. The forecast was bright and clear. It wasn't busy at all. Early joggers. A few odd individuals moving to work. Jessica Park was always eerily empty, like an unpacked suitcase, it offered space and felt hollow when unfilled. It was pretty in a raffish way, but no nuance could be drawn from the glancing eyes of busy mammals. They just moved on.

Finnick got out of the van wearing his aviators. He took the flip phone with him. He'd spied a fennec, sandy-coloured like him with a similar height and amber eyes, trudge into the park and sit on the bench that faced the pond, as well as the bridge that ran over it. He hadn't seen the van, nor Finnick.

He was smoking. A rich herbal smell hit Finnick almost immediately. In his ears were the little white pods everyone except Finnick wore nowadays. In his paws was a smartphone. He wore slate jeans, a black hoodie, and a dirty waterproof jacket. It was almost eighty degrees.

Like a dream, his brother got closer until Finnick stood right next to him and the bench. He had no idea what to say.

Locke looked at the lake, then caught Finnick's gaze. His eyes immediately widened. Unfortunately, he'd been drawing back on his joint right as he saw his estranged migrant brother and coughed harshly as he tried to breathe out. Once he'd suppressed it, beating a paw on his chest, he looked right at Finnick. There were a few new lines around his eyes maybe, but mostly the same exhaustion gripped his features.

"Holy shit," he said.

"Hey, L," was all Finnick could think to say.

Finnick watched Locke's face shift. Surprise moved to curiosity, then to a kind of suspicion. All within half a minute, maybe less, Locke had turned away. He took the pods out of his ears and tapped a button on his phone that made the screen go black.

"Well, don't just stand there. At ease. Sit down," he ordered.

Finnick sat down.

"This one of your once-in-a-decade visits?"

"I guess so."

"I 'guess so' too." His eyes scanned Finnick up and down. "Same goddamn bowling shirt. You know that went out of fashion like twenty years ago? You look like Guy Fiuri."

"Who the hell's that?"

"Right. I forgot. You don't watch or listen to anything from this millennium," Locke looked behind him. "And still with the _Native_ van. I'd thought you sold that for drugs by now."

"I don't do nothin', asshole. I ain't stopped being clean. Can't say the same for you."

Locke breathed out rich-smelling smoke and frowned. "This _is_ clean. Where's your better half, huh?"

"Who?"

"The mastermind, jackass. The one that makes you the money. What… is this a hustle? Am I being hustled right now?"

"You mean Nick?"

"The same Nick. I thought you guys were inseparable. Just like the brother you never had."

"He's out now. Training to be a cop."

Locke laughed. "Yeah and I just got drafted to the Zealots."

"I didn't believe it either."

"So he's out?" he asked. "Second dad that's not around anymore."

Locke had heard about the ice-pop hustle through the grapevine, and had begun teasing Finnick for it years before.

Finnick stared at him. "Forgot how funny you were."

"Yeah, and the rest. Damn, you leave it for so many years I'm surprised you ain't forgot my name."

"So, I'll just take a hike soon, right? Get out of the way of all of your important business," he said, gesturing at the joint.

Locke did not immediately respond. He took a draw, still looking at Finnick. "So he's out," he breathed. "Like, _out_ out?"

"Yeah. Got roped in with some do-goodie. Never gonna look my way again."

"But I will, right?" He said this without a smile.

"I don't know," Finnick said, "Will you?"

Locke shrugged. "Already have. I guess you caught me at good time. If I was sober I probably would've just told you to fuck off."

"Damn," Finnick said. "Lucky me."

Finnick's phone buzzed. He took it out of his pocket and flipped it open.

Lock started giggling. "Oh my goodness! Look at that right there. He got himself a flip phone y'all, this dude really moving up in the world."

"Shut up."

 _Kolesnitsa_ had sent him a message. The directions were to the Natural History Museum, third floor, with a few more specific directions to a room that adjoined it below. Finnick memorised it, deleted the message and looked at his brother.

"You really still got the expression of a death row inmate," Locke said. "Who knew Parks could be so depressing, hey?"

This wasn't humour; it was an acknowledgement. They were sitting feet away from the south end of the short footbridge where Finnick had found out. It spurred the sense within him that he was looking at someone broken. He needed more time. If he delayed the pickup, though, the entire restaurant would be on his ass, and he would disappoint Vlad.

"I got somethin' to do," Finnick said.

"That was quick," Lock said. He held out a fist as goodbye. "Hit me up in fifty years Fin and we can talk for like ten minutes instead of two."

Finnick ignored him, "I gotta pick somethin' up at a museum."

"What?"

"Just a delivery for a friend."

So, product?"

"Look, it don't matter," he paused, "You got a job?"

"Nope," he looked at Finnick, "but not by choice. Shit if I know a fennec that can get hired anywhere nowadays."

"Don't you sell?"

"Nah," he threw the now dead joint to the ground, "tried to but I smoked it all."

"Yeah you a real entrepreneur aren't you."

"Bite me."

"What I'm askin is, are you free?"

Locke laughed. "Oh, you want me to come?"

Finnick nodded.

"To the – what – Art Museum?"

"Natural History."

"Damn bro, a real family outin'?"

Locke paused. He had a rueful smile on his face. His eyes were slightly red. He stared out at the pond. It was strange watching him speak. Memories had given a kind of vague form to how he was, and now proved to be inaccurate. The last time Finnick seen him was too long ago. He seemed far worse now. Finnick felt immense guilt. He'd left it too long.

"Locke."

"Yeah?"

"You comin'?"

"Sure. Why not."

 **…**

At peak hours, the museum by the central tram station was packed. Packed with hundreds and thousands of tourists, visitors, school guides, and families. The way Finnick saw it, the tourism black hole of the city emanated from two places; the centre of the Sahara and the Peak District, closest to central.

Sahara bred socialites. Rich luxury tourists in for the casinos and gated holiday homes. Therefore, most residents didn't mix with them. Finnick saw this as functional, maybe even necessary. They had their space, he had his. But the Peak Station brigades were far different, far worse. Thousands of them overloaded the roads and subway every day, then walked out having carved a trial of destruction that the city cleaned up. It was like an amusement park down some streets. Finnick hated it, and hated them. They would roll around Downtown wearing 'I LOVE ZTP' shirts. He'd love to take them to the Canals. Or to the blocks in Ice town, or, better yet, Happytown. See whether they would keep the shirt on.

To accommodate the crowds that poured in, the Natural History Museum was suitably huge. All documenting history, all ensuring that the differences between predator and prey remain unexaggerated. He'd been sparse times before as a child. The fennec section was suitably small. Three or four important figures, very little to go by in terms of contribution to the city.

Finnick and Locke were staring at the display of them now, inspecting a waxwork of the head tribal leader Kandanoc holding a spear and looking gravely at the distance. He and his followers wore loose, baggy silk. They stood on a cut-out of a sparse, arid savannah. Mane and the lions had a whole room, the fennec's got the corner of one by the restrooms.

"Dude is straight baked," Locke said.

"What?" Finnick replied.

They stood relatively alone. Tourists that did move through passed the exhibit with a glance. Most of the flow, movement and attention was to the archway that led to the 'Mane Restoration'. Some archaeologist had found the great Lion's burial site. Finnick wondered if Mane would enjoy seeing his casket paraded in front of teeming masses of mammals. Probably.

"Kandadook."

"Kandanoc."

"Yeah, Kandalock. Look at the eyes. Red rims bro. They must've had some grass there."

"It said on the display they were spiritual an' all that."

"Spiritual like, drug-spiritual?"

"I dunno," Finnick eyed over the display once more. As he did so, a young gazelle ran up to the exhibit with a pad larger than her head. She stuck it in front of Finnick, took a picture, then ran off without a word.

"The hell was that?" Finnick said.

"A kid with a Fruit iPad," He looked at Finnick amusedly, "you never seen one of those?"

"What, a pad?"

"No. Never mind," he nodded to the display, "Look, it says: 'common practice for fennec tribes was to engage in "spirit nights" where potentially deadly," he frowned, " _hall-ucin-ogen-ic_. Hallucinogenic drugs were consumed to commune with ancestors.'" He smiled, "See, I know my roots."

"So you communin' with our ancestors now?"

"If only," Locke said.

"C'mon, we gotta go to the third floor."

They set off. On the move, around teeming crowds, they had to raise their voices and be ready to dodge whatever larger mammals failed to see them.

Locke smiled, "I'm guessin' you don't want me around for the swap."

Finnick shook his head. "There's no swap. It ain't nothin' serious; I'm just picking something up and goin'. We got some time."

They took a flight up. The spaces were marble and cavernous. The hum of speaking crowds echoed continually around the high ceilings. They had been on the 'pre-meeting' floor. The Third was famous for its huge central display, showing all fifty mammals that met on the summit of what would become the peak district some two thousand years later. Mane, Yoka the bear, Sheare the sheep – all the famous leaders heralded as each races' hero.

Finnick said, "You still ain't got a job then."

"Yeah, nah I ain't. Like I said work don't come easy for us."

"I know that, jackass."

"Well, you ain't never actually worked a real job for a day in your life. So, I assumed you ain't."

"I worked one time."

"When?"

"Cleaning for the studio. I hated it. Why do you think I never bothered?"

"Damn. Well I've had more jobs in the last two years than I can count."

"That ain't good."

"Well shit I know it ain't _good_ but it's the best I can do. If I ever need to make any real money I can just borrow your elephant outfit though, right?"

"Will you fuckin' knock it off with that?"

"Okay sir," Locke laughed. "Will do sir."

They sat on a bench facing the exhibit. The crowd partially obscured it, but Finnick could still count about forty heads that rose above the masses and looked stoically inwards at Mane, who was in the centre. Kandanoc, the fennec, was fully obscured, somewhere in the back and not tall enough to visible over the crowd.

Locke leaned on one of his paws, eyes half shut. "Last job I had was at this, like, news agents. Y'know the boxes on high streets that sell all the shit?"

"Yeah."

"Manager was this Moose who came across all friendly to me at the start. Looked like he was tryna get goodie points for talking to a fox, trusting them with a job. I was showed up late and that whole thing dropped real fast. Next thing it's 'you can't trust a single fox' this, and 'shit fennec's always do that'. Got boring so I just told him I quit. Then he said he'd fired me after."

"Did you quit, or did he fire you?"

"I quit. Damn bro, I was going in to quit that day. Knew he'd started hating me already. Street vendors is way too small a place to work with someone you hate. That one was depressin' because after two days I already knew I'd have to start lookin' again."

"I hate that shit."

"Hate what?"

"Workin' under someone else. No control over your life. I don't know why so many people do it."

"Well, what're you doin' right now? Hustlin' still?"

"No. I tried solo. Fuckin' waste of time."

"So what now?"

"Workin' under someone else. An' I don't like it, but a good friend convinced me, and I feel like I owe him one now."

"Who's this 'good friend'?"

"You won't know him. He's from outta country."

"Outta what country?"

" _A_ country, Locke. I don't know. Somewhere in Europe."

"Is that like up, or down?"

"Europe?"

"Yeah. Is the country above us or below us?"

"Europe isn't a country, headass."

Locke frowned. "It's not?"

"No. It's a continent."

" _Shit_ ," Locke said, "Sorry Mr 'Continent'."

"You really are still that dumb?"

"Bro who cares about that geography stuff? Ain't useful to me."

"Yeah, whatever you say stupid."

More tourists piled in on their droves. Entire brigades, it seemed like. All packed in marble and ornate architecture. A group of nattering goats brushed by Finnick and Locke's seat, led by a head tour guide with a flag. They'd be marching in file next, Finnick thought.

Locke tapped the bench idly. "So Nick is really gone?"

"Really gone."

"He didn't even say goodbye to me."

"Trust me, you wouldn't have liked seein' him."

"What? Why?"

Finnick rubbed his temples. "When we were chattin' before he left, he talked to me about this an' that, sayin' shit like he'd been hustling for years and he can't remember being happy for a single one of them, and now he's finding a purpose he hoped I could too."

"Ew," Locke grimaced, "Sappy."

"And bullshit. Then he said somethin' that got me real messed up. I asked him what the pay would be like, and he just said 'What's money got to do with it?'"

"For real?"

"Yeah. That's all he said. I couldn't believe him. I was starin' at someone I didn't know, L. It was bad."

"Heavy."

That hung for a while. Echoing crowds continued. There seemed to be an infinite stream of them that walked their circuit from the stairs, around the display, then back down the stairs. All while talking, gesturing excitedly to friends and family, and snapping photos of anything that seemed relevant. A few attendants had already started looking their way.

"That's heavy bro. Last time I saw Nick he was out with you to buy that warehouse. You remember?"

"Yeah. He stayed there for a while then it got broken into, so he moved."

"I had a job in retail. I was like a month in, thinkin' that I had a whole career path and all. That was like five years ago. Nothing's changed. Shit. Nothin' at all."

Locke's face looked withdrawn now. He seemed to mull over wasted years. Finnick could only do the same.

"Listen," Finnick said. "I'm gonna find this thing now and then we can go."

"Ok Kantalock. Unite the tribes brother."

It was a slow shuffle around the display. Kandanoc stood beside Julius, the wolf leader. Finnick couldn't remember much about history, but from what he'd read and retained Kandanoc had hated the wolf tribes. The myth went that he and Julius had almost killed each other in a disagreement, or something along those lines. Even the museum had sought to reflect this predator in-fighting. Kandanoc's statue shot two beady eyes up at the wolf beside him, fixed in eternal suspicion.

 _Kolesnitsa_ had messaged Finnick instructions to the side room, with the package stuffed in a small hollow compartment in the restrooms. But, after shuffling slowly past the crowd and into the East Wing of the third floor, he knew he'd never make it there. Tyler, dressed in the crimson red leather jacket, sat on a bench facing the doorway. He smiled genially at Finnick, and motioned for him to sit down. He waved a little box up to him. The package.

Finnick forced himself not to shoot a glance at his brother and moved slowly to the seat. The room displayed weaponry used by each tribe. It wasn't too busy. The run off in the central room found respite in somewhere slightly calmer. Finnick sat down.

"Funny seeing you here," Tyler said. Finnick had never heard his voice so controlled, so quiet. It spoke to a dark intelligence, a cunning, that he knew had always been waiting right beneath the fireworks.

Finnick didn't respond.

"That's right. We're two friends that just want to visit a fuckin' tourist trap and talk about our day."

"Give me it then, and let's get it done."

Tyler put the box down to his right. "But I still want to talk. Don't deprive me of that, Finnick."

Finnick calmed himself. He knew what the wolf was trying to do. He wouldn't give him any satisfaction. He would be calm.

"We hit another few places the other night. Me an' Mikhail. We were feelin' especially angry after that meeting, y'know. I felt like we had a good time. We got all of that negative energy out. Mickie broke a dude's arm."

"I don't give a shit."

"I know tough guy, but still listen though, eh? Might learn something useful."

"I learnt everythin' I need to know about you already."

"You think? I can't say the same for you." He nodded thoughtfully. "That should change."

"You better hope it don't."

Tyler chuckled. He moved the package over to his left beside Finnick. No one around them was even remotely interested in the pair. A family group just in front of them was arguing. Two tourists were consulting maps and talking to an attendant. The world was as clueless as ever.

Finnick put his paw on it and pulled up. As he did so, Tyler clamped his, moving only his left arm and no other part of his body, on top of Finnick's and squeezed. Immediately he broke the skin with his claws. Sharp, stabbing pain exploded into Finnick's paw.

"Listen tough guy, a few things are going to change soon and you're going to have to make a choice. I don't like you that much so I don't want to say any more than that, but Vincent's convinced me to tell you this: one choice will be smart and profitable, the other will be stupid and will put us all in danger. Which, if you are as fuckin' stupid as you seem and can't tell, will also put you in danger. Same goes for that chickenshit Corey, and your rat-pal Mike. Might even put nice old Vlad and his little niece in danger too. Who would want that?" He released his grip.

Finnick swiped his paw away and cradled it.

"And if you tell anyone that I was here me and Mikie will find you and kill you."

The family group departed from view, having finally decided where to go, brushing past Locke as he rounded the corner. He made eye contact with Finnick.

"Hey bro," he called.

Tyler rose, looked at Locke, then looked down at Finnick and smiled. The delight in his eyes said it all.

"You know this guy?" Tyler asked Locke.

Locke looked at Finnick, who, like the worst nightmares, was frozen and unresponsive.

"Who's askin'?" Locke asked.

"No-one," Tyler said, friendly in all aspects, "Just saw him with his busted paw and checked if he was okay. You said you fell on one of the displays, didn't you?"

Finnick didn't move, nor did he respond.

"Yeah that's what he said anyway. Just saw it happen."

"How the hell you do that?" Locke looked at Finnick.

"Fell on it bad. What's your name? Finnick here already told me his."

Locke paused, a frown growing on his face. "Uh, Locke pal."

"Joe. Nice to meet you. I'm leavin'. Hope it clears up, Finnick. Bye Locke." Then he was round the archway and out of sight.

"Sus' dude," Locke mumbled.

Finnick was finally released him from seizing terror. He moved. He pressured his hand. Tyler had cut about three places, all surface wounds, all bleeding. In the other paw he held the box.

Locke stood next to him. "You fell on a spear? What, you tryna fight waxworks now?"

Finnick shook his head. "I got it, let's go."

Finnick outpaced Locke to the exit. He was always a few steps in front, maybe more. The crowds separated them a few times. When Locke caught up he shot a few protests and exasperated phrases before, once again, Finnick was off and slipping through the push of tourists like a slalom skier. As far as he was concerned, the first order of business was to get out. He couldn't think with all the noise teeming against him. He had to get out.

When he finally reached his Van in the lot Locke took at least a minute to catch up. Finnick had already started the engine and had the windows rolled down by the time Locke had climbed into the passenger side. He reversed immediately out, put the van into gear and pressed the gas.

Then the engine revved, and did nothing. Half a second later it caught and jolted, then seemed to slip back into the bite and continue as if nothing happened.

"Who was that guy?" Locke asked.

"I don't know."

He shifted tentatively into second. Fine. Then third. The van sputtered, the rev gauge shot up then back down. It stalled and went into neutral. Finnick breathed for a moment. Then, as they were still coasting through the parking lot, he slammed a paw on his wheel in frustration.

Locke jumped. "Shit!" He exclaimed.

"We gotta go to a garage or else you ain't gettin' home."

"Don't fuckin' do that bro. You scared the shit outta me!"

"You hear me?"

"Yeah I heard you, _damn_. Sure, why not. Add another place on the list of weird locations today." He looked away, shaking his head. "Bro you _really_ still need some anger management classes."

Finnick kept it in second on the way out of the parking lot and into busy streets. Now he could think, he realised the extent of the terrible implications of what had just happened, and wished only to be distracted again.

 **…**

Being back in Potto's reminded Finnick of the way that, in between sets, stagehands would run on, take away equipment, and then rearrange new ones in discreet haste. Like the changing backdrops of a stage play. No matter the scenery, the lines spoken or music played would be the same. The same doom and fear would preside over everything. He would take his personal hell with him to the most familiar of places.

"You're doin' that thing again," Locke said.

Finnick straightened up. "Huh? What?"

"The restin' gloom face."

"It's jus' my face, stupid."

"Yeah but sometimes it gets worse and I feel like I gotta point it out."

The pet project of Crews had visibly progressed. In about a month after he'd seen it, the progression from metal frame to demolition derby car was impressive. An engine, chassis, steering wheel and gearbox. Even some rough metal bodywork. No antique leather dashboard though. Crews had assured Finnick that was next.

Potto was inside his office, avoiding Finnick. Crews had the van on a lift, and was in the process of re-checking the transmission.

"What is this, your, like, third or fourth stop off in as many weeks?" Crews called.

"He's tryna send signals," Locke said.

"I'll say!" Crews laughed.

Finnick was silent and withdrawn.

"He was like that the first time he was here too."

"The depression expression?"

She laughed again, "The very same."

"Yeah, he does that a lot."

"Didn't know a friend of his would be so different."

Locke snorted. "We ain't friends. We brothers. I wouldn't be friendly with this guy if we weren't related."

Crews gasped. "A brother!"

"A younger brother," Finnick said quietly.

Locke bowed like an esteemed member of the genteel. "Nice to meet you, Miss…?"

"Crews."

"Crews. Name's Locke."

"What, like lock and key?"

"L-o-c-k, with an 'e' on the end."

Crews seemed to pause. She adjusted something, then pulled herself out from under the vehicle and looked at them. More oil stains polluted what would otherwise be a bright white coat.

"Finnick never mentioned a brother," she said.

"That's because Finnick never mentions much of anythin'," Locke replied.

Finnick stayed silent. He only partially heard them. Tyler still controlled his thoughts.

Much of the clutter in the garage had been shuffled around, but more had gathered. How could you measure changes in the grains of sand on a dune? Finnick fixed on Potto's blinds. He reckoned the hippo for a coward. He wondered if mention of Tyler being even close to him had scared the garage owner into hiding.

"You got any snacks, Crews?" Locke asked.

"Yeah, some shortbread in the counter beside the extinguisher."

"Right on. I gotta say your customer area is a little sparse. Could do with some décor."

Crews sighed, "Potto stole the waiting room, made it into his office. I have clients that stand for two hours while they wait from their shit to be fixed. Green chair that your brother's on gives you back cramps."

Locke laughed, "Standing for two hours?" He fished into the cupboard and brought the packet out. "Do they come back?"

"Well, yeah. Most."

"Why?"

"Cus' I'm good."

Finnick was sure that Potto was ringing them right now. The coward. Behind the blinds, behind the glass and the door. He was ringing them, telling Tyler what was being said, what Finnick was doing there and when he'd got there. He was talking to one of them.

An hour or so passed. Locke and Crews shot the breeze in a comfortable way. Finnick felt like he was viewing them talk from a distant place, another planet, even when they threw a topic to him. He responded minimally, taking a joke from Locke with a half-hearted retort, and settling back into the chair while the world opened up and grim, terrifying chaos spread out from beneath him. Mostly the danger Locke was now in, contrasted against his ease with Crews, made Finnick feel sick. How could he have done this so quick?

"How did you do that so fast?" Locke asked.

Crews brushed off her paws and shrugged, smug look on her face. "Cus' I'm good. It's fifty, stone-face."

Finnick shuffled around for some cash in his wallet.

Locke said, "Me an' Easter Island Head here are probably gonna be out soon, if the van don't break on us again. Wanna come for drinks? Finnick, you know a few bars, right?"

"Sure."

Crews, oddly enough, seemed to lose some of her energy and withdraw. She averted her gaze. "I don't know, probably not. Got a ton of orders and shifts, you know how it is."

"That's cool," Locke said.

"I would love to, but…" She shrugged. "Potto don't look after the place. Would crumble if I go."

"Don't worry about it."

Finnick got up to give her the fifty. Then he paused, pulled back slightly.

Crews laughed. "What? I ain't free," then her face quickly turned serious. "I'm not free. Did the hippo get you in on the special-order shit again?"

Finnick hesitated. "No," he said. He handed her the bills.

"Good." She took them, casting a searing gaze at the blinds. They flipped shut. Two eyes had been watching them. Finnick got in the van.

"See you Crews," Locke said.

"Bye Locke. Keep Finnick safe, okay?"

"No promises."

Finnick nodded to Crews. "Ciao."

"Ciao," she replied.

They pulled out into the night and were away. Through empty industrial streets, chasing the lights of downtown and riding through silent pathways back to the Park.

"She was cool."

"Drinks after one conversation?" Finnick asked.

"Shit bro. You really don't know how to make friends with people, do you? I think you need some new ones."

"Yeah," Finnick mumbled. "Yeah I do."

…

The bridge over the lake was submerged in darkness. They stood at the peak of the arch. Walking one way would take him to the road and the van. Escape. The other would take him back to memories that he was sure in darkness would manifest as nightmares. Especially after today, walking there wasn't an option. Locke smoked a final rollup that he assured Finnick was tobacco only and leaned out over the water.

Locke tossed the smoke over the side. "I didn't think I'd see you again today. I thought you'd crop back up in like five years more."

"Why?"

"I dunno. By then I probably would've done somethin' really stupid. Stupid enough to get your attention."

There was silence between pauses. The Park imposed its own form of even more enveloping quiet, more so than the empty roads and alleys. Like a black, absorbing substance, sound seemed to slip into it and disappear. It was eerie. Finnick didn't know how Locke could walk through such a place so freely.

"Kandanoc was a cool dude. I'm gonna look him up when I get back. Don't get no data out here."

"Dad told us about him."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He took us to the Museum in the Sarah District one time. You were pretty young."

Locke sighed deeply. Night air was clean, pushed out breath in more than just the physical sense. Drink the air, Finnick. Drink it and make those demons go away.

"I can't do another decade-long absence, Fin. I just can't."

Finnick nodded. "I know."

"Can you make a promise, bro?"

Finnick hesitated. "Yes," he said it and he meant it. "Yeah. Yeah I will come back. But you caught me at a bad time."

"'Workin' under people' right? Some guy got you under their claw?"

"I'll try my best to figure it out."

"Yeah, you will. I got faith."

Finnick looked at him. Years and years of time and shared pain and memory invested into a single being. How could he squander it? Think, Finnick. Think about how much he's lost.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Finnick said.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. I'll drive to your apartment tomorrow. What day is it?"

"It's Sunday."

"I can do it tomorrow then. We'll go to a bar. I know a place near Commodore Park."

"Monday is the Zealots game. They got that on late."

"I'm cool with the bartender. I'm sure he's got yesterday's game saved on the TV."

"What you thinkin' then? Like one o'clock?

"One's fine."

"Sweet. That got me thinking, y'know. Commodore." Locke grinned, "Hey! Remember when Nick got robbed there?"

"Yeah," Finnick smiled too. That was a funny day.

"'Give it back, it isn't even mine!' God damn. Smart brain, but he's got a fool's mouth."

"Yeah, he did."

Lock offered out a paw. Finnick took it, smacked Locke heartily on the back and separated.

"Thanks for coming out brother. Even if I don't see you again, today was chill," Locke said. He left, walking down the bridge and into the Park, into the night and out of sight. Finnick watched the darkness envelop him. He stood on the bridge until the silence became too much to bear, then turned and walked off towards his van.


End file.
